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SECTION VI 

NINETEENTH CENTURY POETS 



GENERAL EDITOR 

RICHARD BURTON, Ph.D. 

PROFESSORIAL LECTURER IN ENGLISH LITERATURE 
UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 



SELECT POEMS 

OF 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
BY 

GEORGE E. WOODBERRY 

EDITOR OF " COMPLETE POETICAL 
WORKS OF SHELLEY," ETC. 



BOSTON, U.S.A., AND LONDON 

D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS 
1908 



Two Coyies Hece:v.> 

iVIAh 17 1908 

}/&**/ 7 /<?«* 

OLrtSb A _ AXc. No. 

cop'r 13. 






COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY D. C. HEATH & CO. 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



Contents 

LIFE v 

INTRODUCTION xi 

I. COR CORDIUM 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty i 

The Two Spirits 5 

To Constantia 7 

The Sensitive Plant 9 

Ode to the West Wind 24 

Stanzas written in Dejection, near Naples . . 28 

To a Skylark 30 

The Cloud 36 

Arethusa 39 

Hymn of Apollo 43 

Hymn of Pan 45 

The World's Wanderers 47 

To the Moon 47 

Ozymandias 48 

Ode to Heaven 48 

An Exhortation 51 

Song («« Rarely, rarely, comest thou ") . . 52 

To Nighty 54 . 

Love's Philosophy 56 

The Indian Serenade 57 

To ("One word is too often pro- 
faned") 58 

To ("I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden") 59 

To ("When passion's trance is over- 
past") 59 



ii Contents; 

From the Arabic: an Imitation .... 60 

The Aziola 61 

Good-night 62 

To-morrow 63 

Lines ("If I walk in Autumn's even") . . 63 

Mutability 64 

Remembrance 65 

v Lines ("When the lamp is shattered") . . 66 

Time Long Past 67 

Lines ("Far, far away, O ye ") . . . . 68 

To Edward Williams 69 

To Jane : the Invitation — the Recollection . 72 

v With a Guitar : to Jane 78 

The Magnetic Lady to her Patient . . . 80 

N* To Jane 83 

Lines written in the Bay of Lerici . . . . 85 

A Dirge 87 

A Lament 87 

Time 88 

^V To (" Music, when soft voices die ") . 88 

II. LYRIC DRAMA 

From Prince Athanase 89 

From Prometheus Unbound 90 

I. Spirit-Song 90 

II. The Form of Love 91 

III. The Journey of Asia . . . . . . 92 

IV. The Millennium : 

I. The Prophecy of Prometheus . .109 
II. The Music of the Shell . . . .113 

III. The Pageant of the Earth and the 

Moon 118 

IV. The Triumphal Song of the Earth 123 
V. The Hymn of Demogorgon . . .127 

From the Indian Play 130 



Content* iii 

Scene from Orpheus 141 

Bridal Song 144 

Archy's Song 145 

III. A FEW SONGS OF LIBERTY 

Song to the Men of England 146 

Ode to Liberty 147 

Lines written on Hearing the News of the 

Death of Napoleon 162 

Choruses from Hellas : 

I. " Life may change " 163 

II. "Let there be light" 167 

III. "Worlds on worlds" 167 

\IV. " Darkness has dawned " . . . .169 

gy. " The world's great age" .... 170. 

America 172 

IV. SCENES FROM NATURE AND LIFE 

Mont Blanc 174 

Venice : from Julian and Maddalo . . . 181 
Lines written among the Euganean Hills . .187 

Marenghi 201 

Ginevra 202 

< When soft winds " 203 

Rain 203 

The Waning Moon 204 

Evening: Ponte al Mare, Pisa 204 

The Question 205 

The Boat on the Serchio 208 

V. POEMS OF IDEAL PURSUIT 

From Prince Athanase 214 

Alastor 215 



iv Contents 

Epipsychidion 246 

Adonais 273 

NOTES 301 

INDEX TO FIRST LINES 313 



Life 



Percy Bysshe Shelley was born August 4, 1792. He belonged 
by birth and breeding to the class of English gentlemen. He was 
the eldest son of his father, Timothy Shelley, a bluff and testy Tory 
squire; the family was rich and in 1806 added a baronetcy to its 
possessions, so that Shelley as a lad was heir to a title and a com- 
fortable fortune of ^200,000. He grew up from childhood in the 
quiet country scenes of Sussex at Field Place, a handsome old- 
fashioned house, with woods, and a great pond, gardens and rural 
roads all about, and there learned to ride and shoot, and enjoy the 
English out-door life ; student that he afterwards became, he always 
lived out-of-doors. He went away to school at the age of ten, and 
in due time passed on to Eton and Oxford. He was of a delicate 
organization, slight in build but of sound health, and in tempera- 
ment ardent and impulsive ; he was never controlled at any time in 
his life. At Eton he was already characterized. He defied the tra- 
ditions of the school, refusing to fag. He stood apart, an unfor- 
getable figure to all his mates, a boy indignant and untamed ; but 
for all that he took his share in the school-life, in sports and lessons, 
and had his own friends. He was full of energy, active-minded, 
and before he left Eton had published Zastrozzi, a romance. 
When he went to Oxford, in the fall of 18 10, he was in the full 
tide of versatile and precocious young authorship, and his family 
indulged him in his tastes for printing ; he was equally ready witi 
prose or verse, fiction or philosophy. Out of one of these adven 
tures there came catastrophe. He issued a challenge to orthodoxy 
in the shape of a tract, The Necessity of Atheism ; the reply 
of orthodoxy was to expel him from the University, March 25, 



vi !Uft 

x 8 1 1. No one in the University seems to have taken any interest 
in him. In consequence of this incident he had his first serious 
difference with his family, since he refused to make any submission; 
but hardly was a reconciliation arranged before a worse estrangement 
arose because of his marriage with a pretty school-girl friend of his 
sister, Harriet Westbrook, with whom he eloped to Edinburgh and 
was there wedded, August 28. 

From this time Shelley's life became more and more a tangled 
story, and its incidents and aspects must be sought in longer narra- 
tives. It was at first an impecunious and wandering existence, rest- 
lessly veering this way and that in obedience to financial conditions 
and ever changing places of study and action. In two years he had 
set up his tent in many places with diverse fortunes. It was the 
ime when the man was forming in him, and this process went on 
with much confusion, while his definite practical aims changed from 
month to month. Inwardly, it was a life of the student. Shelley 
was rapidly acquiring knowledge and ideas, of which he was always 
insatiate ; and he was incessantly reworking what he acquired, in 
his mind by thinking, and more effectually by expression in writing 
both in prose and verse, in fiction, philosophical tract and political 
manifesto, fusing and fusing over the metal of his thought. Out- 
wardly, it was for a time a life of the political agitator. He was, in 
his first phase, most of all a reformer. An extreme radical, he 
dreamed of remaking the world. The episode by which this is best 
remembered is his journey to Ireland in the spring of 18 12, when 
he distributed his ' ' Address ' * and also spoke on the platform of 
O'Connell, besides doing other political work. He earned thus the 
attention of the government, and was followed by a spy of the secret 
service, who got his servant into prison. The literary result of this 
first period was Queen Mab, published in 18 13, which between 
notes and text contained, in a form more didactic than poetic, his 
convictions. 

In 18 13 Shelley came of age, and arrangements were made 



tlife vii 

by which his income, hitherto largely raised by post-obit bonds, 
was secured so that he had sufficient to live upon. His life as a 
scholar, too, began to be liberated. He had practically been self- 
educated, and was somewhat narrowly confined to French scepticism 
and radical English thought. Now through Peacock, a minor nov- 
elist and poet, he began that acquaintance with the Greek genius 
which so transformed his literary expression and philosophical con- 
ceptions, and through Mrs. Boinville, a family friend, he also began 
a close acquaintance with Italian. Meanwhile a change had passed 
over his domestic happiness, and as he had already encountered the 
blind chances of life to his ill, he met in turn its blind forces. The 
first marriage had been one of simple affection and a certain guile- 
lessness, in which Shelley, not deeply stirred and rather passive, 
had acted with a touch of Quixotism ; but he had been quietly 
happy and was attached to his child. His wife, however, had wearied 
of the wandering ways of their existence, and her sympathy with 
Shelley's intellectual life and aims, which could never have been 
profound, was weakened. She lived much apart from him. His 
health had been affected by the erratic modes of their life, but rather 
mentally than physically, and the eerie side of a poet's life was often 
too palpably present ; he was always highly excitable, nervous and 
roving in mood. He was, perhaps morbidly, discouraged, and at a 
loss and solitary. In this state he saw Mary Godwin, the daughter 
of Mary Wollstonecraft and Godwin, the radical leader whom 
he most revered, and he was struck with the passion of love for 
the first time. He had long maintained publicly the principle that 
marriage should continue only while love gave it foundation. He 
told his decision to Harriet, who was clearly not prepared for any 10 
sudden crisis, and he eloped with Mary to France in July, 1814. 
He provided then and afterward for Harriet, but he united himself 
with Mary. Acts, however, have consequences ; and Shelley, how- 
ever he may have justified himself, as he did without doubt in his 
own conscience, nevertheless bore lifelong the burden of the fact 



viii ilife 

that his first wife whom he loved died in despair, however caused ; 
the drowned herself in the Serpentine in December, 1816. 

Shelley was married to Mary formally in December, 1816, and 
sought first to obtain the custody of his two children by Harriet 
who had been in the charge of her family. The Chancery Court 
denied his suit on the ground of his atheistical and immoral principles 
as shown in Queen Mab. This was the most serious grief of Shelley's 
life, and he lived in England in some fear that his children by Mary 
might be taken from him. Meanwhile, the poetic element in his 
nature strengthened and obtained the mastery of his political instincts. 
He had published Alastor in 181 6, and in 1 81 7 he issued the long 
narrative poem, The Revolt of Islam, in which the matter of reform 
still clogs the verse. Life in England had become difficult for him. 
He felt the public odium by which alone he was known ; his health 
was much impaired, and at one time he was believed to be the sure 
victim of consumption j his memories of France and Switzerland 
stimulated his desires for a change. He sailed in March, 1818; 
and, going direct to Italy, spent there the last four years of his life, 
mainly in the neighborhood of Pisa, though with considerable periods 
of residence at Este, Rome, and Naples and briefer visits to Florence 
and Venice. Here two of his children died, Clara and William, 
and Percy, the youngest, who inherited the name and estate, was 
born. His life, though lonely, was not altogether solitary or unsocial. 
He saw much, at different times, of Byron, who valued him. Old 
family friends of Mary's lived at Leghorn, and new acquaintances 
were made as their stay lengthened. Italy, nevertheless, was a soli- 
tude for Shelley, and fit for him to live and brood in. He could be 
out of doors always, and the scene was such as vividly to invigorate 
his imagination and soothe his unrest and discontent. Especially he 
was protected from the disturbances of politics, and though from 
time to time he was stirred in his revolutionary ardor by the English 
riots or the outbreaks in Spain and Greece, yet it was only an inci- 
dental passion. He produced in rapid succession his greater works, 



ilife 



IX 



Prometheus Unbound, The Cenci, Adonais, Epipsychidion, besides 
the lyrics and a multitude of fragments. His work in Italy is the 
substance of his fame. 

At the close Shelley was companioned by a pleasant group. He 
went to Lerici, on the gulf of Spezzia, for the summer of 1822, 
and was happy in his boat, the Ariel, which arrived on May 12, 
and the beautiful scenes amid which he sailed day and night. Near by 
was the little village where, as was his custom all his life in every 
place, he visited and made friends with the poor people and helped 
them. His inner moods were grave and sad, as his poems reveal, 
but the friendship of the Williamses, lately made, solaced him. 
Trelawney was never far away, and to him and Williams Shelley 
must have owed the most cheerfulness that was ever given him. 
He went over to Pisa in the boat to meet Leigh Hunt, his old 
friend, welcomed him with delight and left him with Byron. On 
the way back the boat ran into a brief summer storm and, in a 
manner still unknown, went down. With Shelley was Williams 
and a young English sailor-boy. This was on July 8. The bodies 
were washed ashore near Viareggio on a desolate stretch of sand, 
beneath the shining white summits of the Carrara mountains. There, 
on August 18, Trelawney, Byron, and Hunt burned his body. The 
ashes were buried in Rome, in the grave now well known. 



gintro&uctfon 

Shelley's poetic genius was complex. It found ex- 
pression in narrative, dramatic and lyrical verse and 
ranged over a wide diversity of themes; its literary 
sources, owing to his scholarly habits, were uncom- 
monly various. He is, consequently, in his work, taken 
as a whole, a difficult poet. The lyrical impulse was, 
nevertheless, predominant in his genius, and modified 
even its narrative and dramatic expression. It belongs 
to the lyric to be plain in meaning, direct in address 
and spontaneous in origin; it is an effusion of emotion, 
and emotion is simpler than thought. The power of 
Shelley is thus most felt in his plainest verse when the 
emotional impulse is controlling, the lyricism most pure, 
his touch with life most immediate, his expression most 
unconscious; and his poetry has these traits when it is 
most brief, most personal, and is most engaged with 
idealities of beauty, love, truth. Shelley, however, 
freed his genius but slowly from other elements of his 
life; it gradually took pure form; it was with difficulty 
subdued to artistic aims. He was, in particular, 
strongly under the sway and influence of his political 
interest, that "passion for reforming the world," 
which he owned to be his and which was anterior in 
his life to poetic ardor; he was also much occupied by 
his intellectual interest, a metaphysical impulse in the 
main, which was the companion of his genius and 



xii 31ntroOuction 

forged a group of poetic ideas whereon much of his 
poetry was articulated, as it were, and given mental 
structure. There was thus in his verse a substratum 
of political and philosophical thought, such that the 
reader must often be acquainted with certain radical 
ideas in politics and social theory, and with certain 
transcendental ideas in philosophy, before he can either 
understand or appreciate the verse. The history of 
Shelley's mind, in other words, is involved in an ade- 
quate appreciation of his poetry; and for this reason 
much of it remains ordinarily out of general touch. It 
is only that part of his verse in which the political and 
intellectual interests are absent, or are present only 
as the human passion for ideal ends such as universal 
love, beauty, truth, that makes a wide appeal; and to 
this portion the present selection is in the main con- 
fined. 

It will be useful, however, even in dealing with this 
portion to glance briefly at the history of Shelley's 
poetic career. He was a born writer, and from boy- 
hood wrote both prose and verse; but he was a good 
prose writer before he was a poet. In verse he was 
cradled in that school of German ballad romance, 
whose crude Teutonism he long kept traces of; in prose 
he began with its mate, the German tales of wonder 
and horror. But it was in his serious writing that he 
formed his admirable style. He displays in his boyish 
romance and balladry the imaginative excitability of 
genius; in his tracts he shows its mental excitability. 
He fed himself on Hume, on such philosophy as is 
found in Baron d'Holbach's Systeme de la Nature and 



^Introduction xiii 

on the ideas of the English radicals headed by God- 
win; and he wrote, under the impetus of this reading, 
tracts for reform both speculative and practical. 
Though a youth he was very serious in this early pro- 
selytism, and became, in fact, a political agitator. He 
was, nevertheless, born a poet, and he condensed and 
precipitated these ideas in Queen Mab y his first true 
poem, uncommonly well written verse. It is noticeable 
as containing a voyage and also a view of the universe 
scientifically conceived, which remained fixed themes 
of his imagination; but it was essentially a didactic 
poem. Shelley's idea was to employ his poetical 
powers, such as they might prove to be, in the service 
of reform. Queen Mab is also noticeable as the only 
poem written by Shelley in a condition of happiness. 
It was composed before any tragic circumstance arose 
in his life. He was twenty-one years old when it was 
issued. Five years later he published The Revolt of 
Islam. The step of progress is that he had eliminated 
a direct didactic method. But he could not give up 
the matter of reform; that was still the text. Shelley 
was always fond of a story; his first work had been a 
romance; and he took to narrative naturally. He was 
not, however, content with mere narrative; it must 
have a secondary meaning and intention of thought; 
consequently he made his narrative an allegory of 
world- reform. The Revolt of Islam is a poem seldom 
read. More than for its revolutionary substance it is 
memorable as the first English poem in which the 
modern ideal of woman in her freedom is presented, 
of which Tennyson's Princess, so different in treat- 



xiv 31ntroDucttott 



ment, is the second. In this poem the womanly char- 
acter is given in Laone, the heroine, plainly an ideal 
deriving from Shelley's wife, Mary, and fitly so since 
she seems the heiress of her mother, Mary Wollstone- 
craft, the first English advocate of women's rights. 
The poem is noticeable, too, for the frank disclosure 
of Shelley's willing dependence on the great poets of 
the world, — a trait constant in his career, and whether rt 
derogatory to his original genius I leave others to de- 
termine. He was content, perhaps proud, to attempt 
to compose in his own way scenes and eifects of the 
great classical tradition, as in the account here given of 
the plague after Lucretius. Thirdly, the poem pro- 
claims, not violence, but passive resistance as the means 
of victory and affirms the doctrine of the triumph of 
good over evil by love only. 

It is plain that Shelley's poetic faculty had devel- 
oped even while dealing with a didactic theme how- 
ever disguised by the method of narrative. He had 
been, however, before composing The Revolt of Islam 
profoundly discouraged by misfortune in his private life 
and had become fully aware of the futility of the prac- 
tical attempts he was making for the public cause he 
sought to advance. It was inevitable, it was the native 
drawing of his genius, that he should feel the impulse to 
follow ideal beauty and leave the world to its ways. 
But he believed that man is bound, as he said, to serve 
his fellow-men; and hence that to let the world go by, 
to follow the gleam, was a fatal error, and that isola- 
tion, whatever ideal might be there pursued, must end 
in destruction. Under the mastery of this idea he had , 



31ntrot>uction xv 

already written his first poem, free from the political 
motive, Alas tor y in which he depicted a youth so de- 
stroyed in his ideal pursuit. The poem is, as it were, 
a protest and a warning against his own necessary fate. 
He had turned to the long labor of The Revolt of 
Islam in his old spirit of service to the cause; but against 
his will, as it might seem, it was to a detachment from 
life in society and to absorption in the ideal that he 
moved on. The poetic element in him had received 
an immense impetus. A great change had occurred. 
He had previously been fed intellectually from English, 
Latin and French sources of poetry and philosophy. 
He now became deeply engaged in Greek studies, and 
the change in his poetry was like breaking a chrysalis, 
like entrance on another kind of being. The Greek 
tragedies loosed his lyrical, one may better say, his 
choral power, the most marvellous of his gifts which 
made him the first English lyric poet, and Plato un- 
folded in his mind its instincts toward the supernal and 
inducted him into the mystical sense of beauty and love, 
which was to be his touch with the divine. It was a 
reincarnation of his poetic life. Shelley, however, did 
not lay his old nature off; there was only transforma- 
tion in the change. Rapt as he was into the great crea- 
tive world of art, he was only filled with a deeper, a 
more intense passion for human welfare; the two ele- 
ments blended and gave out his great work, the Pro- 
metheus Unbound. As it had been but a step from 
story to allegory, it was now but a step from allegory 
to symbolization; and, adopting that artistic method, 
Shelley symbolized his political and philosophical ideas 



xvi iflntro&uctton 



in the drama, setting forth the Promethean ideal of pa- 
tient suffering in love for all things and the millennial 
ideal of the golden age as the final state of mankind on & 
earth, while from another part of his mind he figured 
in Asia — the companion of Prometheus — the spirit 
of nature, visible beauty, the emanation of the unknown 
and unsearchable power which is the source of all 
being. Without entering on any analysis or description 
of this choral drama, it is obvious that Shelley had now 
freed his poetic genius from the rivalry of either politics 
or philosophy, and had subdued them to poetry as ma- 
terials for its creative hand; they are present, but they 
are present under imaginative and impassioned forms 
and harmoniously with artistic aims. 

Shelley, however, had by no means integrated his 
genius into a power of pure imagination either lyrically 
or dramatically; there was still implicitly in it a practi- 
cal aim, — to serve man's welfare though by ideal means. 
He was too strongly built, too integral himself, to 
break suddenly with his past. His faculty, too, was 
fecund, and was always bursting into new modes of 
expression. His poetic tale, Rosalind and Helen, had 
been merely a pendant to an earlier stage of thought 
and belongs by its story, style and characterization with 
The Revolt of Islam. In Julian and Maddalo he had 
opened that vein of familiar verse in which he is with- 
out a companion in English literature; but in later 
years he continued the style only fragmentarily. He 
had now, however, conceived his career definitely as 
lying partly at least in the world of pure art, and he 
undertook a masterpiece of objective drama in The c 



3|ntrotmction xvii 

Cenci ; extraordinary as was his success in a form of 
writing seemingly so little natural to him, he did not 
entirely free himself from his own world of thought in 
the attempt; but the discussion of this drama belongs 
to another volume of this series. In his artistic growth 
his studies of Greek imagination continued to support 
him most, and aided him to give mythic form to nature 
in his lyrics and also plastic form in his classical hymns. 
,The symbolic mode of art dominated him in these and, 
with a closer touch of allegory, in The Sensitive Plant, 
while in his simple love lyrics he began to find that im- 
mediate outflow from his genius, in forms seemingly 
unconscious of all art and . free from any ulterior pur- 
pose, in which his supreme appeal as a universal poet 
is lodged. 

There was one region of his mind, however, which 
lay somewhat apart. In it grew and flourished his doc- 
trine of love, a mystic and suprasensual theme. He 
had early formed the ideal conception of love as the 
divine principle of the universe, and he approached it 
[by the way of its incarnation in transitory beauty; and 
I it is noticeable that from the first he described this as 
intellectual beauty. The study of Plato, and also the 
study of Dante and the Italians, developed this germinal 
idea. It gave out in succession, like blossoms on a 
spray, separate conceptions. These were not organ- 
ized in any system of thought, nor were they final or 
I in any way very definite conceptions. He distinguished 
i between the love of the higher and the lower; he kept 
in mind the Platonic notion of gradual purification in 
love through attachment to beauty in an ascending series 



xviii ifltttrotmctton 

of its manifestations; he brooded much on the drama of 
the struggle of the higher and the lower love for the 
body and soul of a youth, whom he named Prince 
Athanase but whose tale he left untold. He also worked 
out in his mind other lines of Platonic theory, such as 
the doctrine of the anti-type, or companion soul, of 
which the soul itself is in search. These various mys- 
tical conceptions were not philosophically related in his 
mind; they merely existed there like wild seed that 
had been sown and had come up flowering in confusion 
but with a life of nature. An accident — his meeting 
with an Italian lady whose misfortunes and beauty 
touched him — set these various ideas in commotion; 
and out of it came the rapid improvisation of Epipsy- 
chidion, in which, variously intermingled and with ob- 
scure allegoric relations to his own personal history in 
love, these ideas were, not so much given expression, as 
made the spring and source of the verse. The poem, 
highly wrought in imagery and in a mood of ecstasy, 
is difficult; he himself hoped for but few who should 
give it fit entertainment; but, since Prince Atbanase 
was never written, it remains the premature and frag- 
mentary expression of his doctrine of love, and is the 
climax of the philosophical element in him as Prome- 
theus Unbound is of the political element, both being \ 
poetically rendered. Both, it may be noted, end in 
a Paradise, a mood of ecstasy, a dream of perfection, 
in the one case for mankind, in the other for the pri- 
vate life. 

Shelley's idealization of women was an important and 
constant element in his life and thought. He was always , 



3Introtiuctton xix 

a lover; but he had early come to live mentally in the 
ideal doctrine of love and had developed it variously 
under the influence of the thoughts of Plato and the 
poets. What Laone had been to the sphere of his revolu- 
tionary thought, an ideal of enfranchised woman, that the 
lady of the Epipsychidion was to the sphere of his lover's 
thought, an ideal of mortal love. The sphere of love, 
however, was that of his private self, and only at times of 
discouragement and pain did it at all usurp on the main 
I business of his life which was poetic creation in the large, 
J — tale or drama or revolutionary ode. In Italy he was 
happily removed from near and constant excitement of 
his political enthusiasm; yet whenever the occasion 
arose he became the poet of the cause. If workingmen 
were shot in Manchester, he was ready with The Masque 
of Anarchy. If a revolution broke out in Spain or Italy, 
he welcomed it with an ode of triumph and incitement. 
If Greece rose against the Turk, he sang a new drama 
of the Per sa in Hellas ; and his heart was in all these 
doings. It is noticeable that he retains his gospel-truth of 
the supremacy of love, patience and kindness, as the 
method of regeneration for society; but he also rejoices 
in the victory of bloody arms. His ideal of the per- 
fect state was one in which government should be no 
more; that is, it was an anarchical ideal of peace on 
earth, good-will to men, in which there would be no 
place for king or priest, for court or prison, for war 
foreign or domestic, — a millennium ; but he accepted re- 
solution in the making, and bade the fighters god-speed. 
In Hellas, nevertheless, close as it is to contemporary 
:hings, the artistic element prevails. The lyric opening 



xx 3|ntro&uction 

has a beauty all its own; the speculative theory of 
Ahasuerus is a passage of ideality not specifically related 
to the theme of Greek liberty; the great choruses are 
generalized encomiums of the glory of Greece, the march 
of liberty, the universal hope of the world. In other 
words, the political motive laxly controls the drama, 
for the sense of art had become primary in every ex- 
pression of the poet's genius, whatever of practical occa- 
sion and current fact might blend with the work. 

The Adonais was the most purely artistic poem of 
Shelley. It was related to life, as the larger part of his j 
verse always was closely bound in some way with things 
actual. The elegy was occasioned by the death of Keats. J 
But if there be any of the longer poems which exists ii 
the realm of pure art and is the work of the imaginatioi 
working solely to artistic ends, it is this. It is full of 
personal pathos, of meditation on life, of divine philo- 
sophy, but all is held within the bounds of beauty andi 
moves under the spontaneous and unreflecting impulse of 
poetic passion. The willing dependence of Shelley on old ; 
writers is noticeable here at the close of his life as at thet' 
beginning; he had, in the works already noticed, written 
under the shadow of the glory of ^schylus or Shake- 
speare or Plato, and now under the shadow of the beauty 
of Bion and Moschus. He had, too, entered the sphere 
of Calderon, " the light and odour of the flowery and 
starry Autos," as he described that lyric world. It 
seems likely that the works he meditated, of which least 
is known and of which none was written, such as The 
Creator, might have been related to Calderon as the 
earlier choral dramas to ^Eschylus; and that in these, and 



3|ntroDuction xxi 

:he dramas of which the fragmentary Indian play is an 
ndication, his artistic power would have reached ifej 
:limax and consummation. The attentive student of his 
Irama can hardly refrain from believing that Shelley 
vason the eve of naturalizing the Spanish drama in Eng- 
ish. The fate of The Creator is unknown ; like Prince 
dtbanase, like that longer poem to which, Shelley said 
n his preface, the Epipsychidion seemed to be merely 
,in introduction, like Charles the First and The Tri- 
impb of Life , these works were not to be. What is plain 

that, on the verge of his thirtieth year, Shelley's poetic 
enius, subdued to the elements it worked in, had be- 
ome a pure power of art. 

In this rapid view of the history of Shelley's mind 
t is easy to perceive the close connection and inter- 
exture of his poetry with the realities of his time and 
us own life. Unreality is the fault most alleged against 
lim; yet as one reviews the successive poems, the basis 
f reality in them seems large. In his more familiar 
erse many passages recur to the mind which are but 
ttle removed from the actual scenes of life; such, for 
xample, are the sail on the Serchio, the ride with 
Jyron, the letter to Mrs. Maria Gisborne, the pine- 
Drest at Pisa, the anecdote of the Aziola, the day in 
he Euganean Hills. In observation of nature he was 
ninute and accurate; the description of the skylark is 
ingularly truthful, to name an instance, and so is the 
road scene of the lines on the bridge at Pisa. The 
^enes of pure nature are clearly memories of particular 
loments of grandeur or beauty, as in the case of the 
wonderful sky scene, of which he is fond, disclosing 



xxii 31ntroDuction 

M 

a dawn or a sunset pouring through a mountainous 
chasm of cloud, or as in the many forest scenes. It ill 
noticeable, also, to what an extent he was dependent 
on the external stimulus of an occasion or a person tft 
rouse or to unlock his mood. With the exception of 
the Ode to Liberty all his later political verse was occa- 
sional, the response of his heart to current events ini 
England, Spain, Italy and Greece. The Epipsychidion, 
abstract as it is in one sense, would not have been 
written except for the accident of his encounter witril 
Emilia Viviani. The Ode to the West Wind and To At 
Sky lark were personal experiences. His love poetry, 
even more exclusively than his political verse, was in- 
cited by persons; there is no one of them, however 
universal in appearance, that has not the stamp of per- 
sonal experience. Love was for him an ideality in all 
its forms, whether divine, humanitarian or personal : 
but in each form it was realized in the visible beautj 
of nature, in the cause of liberty and in the womei 
whom he knew and loved either actually and simply 
under one or another form of feigning. In his HI 
woman was real, love was passion; and in its mooc 
of restraint, denial and despondency, it was still actual 
experience. In no part of his verse is there mor- 
reality blended of many elements than in the final group 
of love poems commemorating the last year at Pisa and 
Lerici. The poetry is not unsubstantial, either as a 
scene of nature, a revolutionary theme or a personal 
history. In it Shelley dealt with known objects, actual 
events and real persons, in large measure, and threw 
over them the veil of his words. , 



31ntroDuction xxiii 

The sense of unreality in the verse, which is com- 
monly strongly felt on the first reading, is in part due 
to his use of images "drawn from the operations of 
the human mind," as he himself notes. He shared 
something of that quality which he imputed to Cole- 
ridge whom he described as a " subtle-souled psycholo- 
gist; " and this tells in the verse as an initial obstacle 
to most readers. It is also in part due to his use of im- 
agery from the atmospheric elements — light, wind, 
color, cloud, motion; and in general from the scenery 
of the upper air — mountains, glaciers, vistas, sunrise, 
tempest, space, darkness in flight, mists, splendor. 
The intensity of this imagery, perhaps more than its 
novelty and rapidity, confuses the unaccustomed mind, 
nor is any poetry better described as blinding with 
" excess of light." If the reader should attempt 
Calderon, he would have a very similar experience at 
the outset. To this trait is to be added the presence in 
the verse of a finer sensuousness than is commonly the 
lot even of sensitive men, and which is as " blood 
within the veins." It was Shelley's idiosyncrasy to be 
more a creature of nature than most men, and his lan- 
guage comes from a primitive world; his imagination 
lives in an outdoof dominion, where he himself had his 
own familiar life. No English poet ever lived so much 
in the open air. He had English tastes, in that re- 
spect, and from boyhood he indulged them, being born 
to leisure and never confined by any employment any 
more than Virgil. He boated and rode, he shot and 
climbed; he moved easily about with the command of 
travel; he had the natural habits of a high-bred Eng- 



xxiv 3]mroDuction 

lish youth. It is easy to trace in his earlier works the 
scenes that he saw, — the spire disappearing among the 
stars, the heath and the Welsh hills, the western ocean 
of the Irish seas. The river voyage he never forgot ; 
it was always an ideal felicity for him. He wrote The 
Revolt of Islam floating in his boat on the Thames or 
walking along the chalk hills; he composed Alas tor in 
the shade of the oaks of Windsor Park. His first visit 
to Switzerland and the Rhine gave exaltation to his 
landscape and a new sense of majesty. After he settled 
in Italy there was no longer any occasion for housing 
himself, and he lived constantly in the outer world, 
composing in the summer-house at Este, among the 
baths of Caracalla at Rome, in the Pisan pine wood, 
by the torrent of Lucca, on the waters by Lerici. He 
evidently was drawn ocularly to the atmosphere; he 
watched the heavens; and this appears in his remark- 
able knowledge of the clouds, which he rendered as no 
other poet has ever done. If he used the imagery of 
the atmosphere, it was because he knew it. It was 
not only this outdoor life that moulded his poetry, but 
the subtle spirit within him feeling every impulse of 
sense inhabited his verse. It is difficult even to indi- 
cate this. It is seen, perhaps, in his constant reference 
to the state of the air; there is no poetry with so much 
temperature in it. It is hinted again by the faintness 
that would from time to time overcome him; even in 
the open air fragrance would so affect him. Its sign 
and proof is the recurrence in his verse of the state and 
phenomena of ecstasy, which he describes over and 
again and which is the climax and sudden fall of many 



3f|ntro&uction xxv 

a poem, the Hymn to Asia, the Ode to Liberty, the 
Epipsychidion, the Adonais ; in the shorter lyrics it is 
equally found. There was something idiosyncratic, 
something that was seated in his genius deep as life, in 
all this; and yet it is to be remembered that as in his 
political evangel he was of the radical school of his 
time or neighbored its writers, so here he was of the 
romantic school of his age in poetry; the minute obser- 
vation of nature, psychology, and the mood of ecstasy 
were traits of romanticism. What distinguishes Shelley, 
and in a certain sense removes him from English appre- 
ciation, is the presence of a foreign landscape and air; 
he placed the Prometheus' Unbound in an Alpine set- 
ting, and over all his poetry of the last and fruitful 
years broods the beauty of the Mediterranean world; 
a beauty exotic, unknown, inconceivable; and this, 
passing into the verse, transforms it out of the English 
genius and touches it with alienation while it immortal- 
izes it. 

The touch of Italy was also felt by Shelley in the 
form of his poetry, which, like the landscape, tended 
to become foreign. It is perhaps not so clearly recog- 
nized as is desirable that his greater imaginative work, 
though it lies in the classical tradition, departs from 
the English line of that tradition; he owes less to Eng- 
lish than to foreign influences. It is true that his con- 
temporaries of the earlier time, Southey, Wordsworth 
and Coleridge, in particular, affected the formation of 
his younger verse metrically and gave direction to his 
thoughts and imagery; but outside of the great writers 
of England — Shakespeare, Spenser, Milton — Shelley 



xxvi ^Introduction 

seems to have had no considerable range in English 
poetry. If there are indications of more detailed know- 
ledge, as when the opening of Alas tor appears to echo 
a passage in Jonson's Cynthia' s Revels, they are prob 
ably exceptions; such passages, perhaps, as Leigh Hunt 
might have brought to his notice. In his youth he read 
more prose than verse, and mostly in the field of phi- 
losophy, history, social reform. In Italy he read the 
Greek, Italian and Spanish poets. He took the classi- 
cal tradition by direct contact, and not mediately 
through the English. This explains somewhat the sin- 
gularity of the impression made by the form of his im- 
agination, not only in the Prometheus Unbound, but in 
a broader compass. He was especially drawn by th 
arts of Italy, and in particular by sculpture and paint- 
ing to which he gave much attention; this, without 
doubt, strengthened his plastic power of imagination j 
and helped him to realize the figured impersonations of ■ 
his lyric drama. He had a natural bent to allegory and 
symbolization, as has been said, and this developed in 
Italy into a marked predilection for the forms of the ! 
masque. There are signs of this taste in the Prometheus ] 
Unbound; its choral groups are conceived rather as i 
merely musical than as pictorial, but the chariots of the A 
Hours bring in the picture element, and the vision of ^ 
the spheres of the earth and moon is pure masque. 
The second instance is The Mask of Anarchy. The 
reading of those poems, called in Italian Trionfi, fur- 
ther developed the taste, and Shelley's last and most 
obscure poem, the uncompleted Triumph of Life, is a 
pure allegorical pageant. Traces of this manner of fig-- 



i 



31ntro0uctton xxvii 

uring imagination and grouping allegorical figures picto- 
rially are not uncommon in Shelley's later work. The 
masque form had conquered his imagination, within its 
own province at least, and was the consummation of 
the allegorical impulse in his genius, so often shown in 
its lower modes of art. There was something kindred 
to this form-instinct in his impersonation of the char- 
acters of Prometheus and Asia ; but in The Creator, 
which was to be built on the suggestions of the Book 
of Job, this method of construction would have been 
used in a more comprehensive way, if the Prologue to 
Hellas may be taken as an indication. Just as the 
powers of nature are personified in elemental yet human 
forms, such as Apollo, so ideas may be similarly per- 
sonified in forms of imagination, a feat which Shel- 
ley had in fact accomplished in Prometheus Unbound. 
The method of the Spanish drama, dealing with the 
mysteries of the faith and like subjects, is not far re- 
moved from this. Shelley was in the direct line to 
such an intellectual figuration of abstract ideas and prin- 
ciples, in elemental yet human forms, given dramatic 
life and lyric expression, but rather on the pattern of 
Calderon than of JEschylus. The pastoral element, 
also, which enters only slightly into the Prometheus 
Unbound in the faun-scene, had been greatly strength- 
ened by his life in Italy. It is singular that his works 
show so few traces of any interest in the Italian pasto- 
ral drama. Milton's Comus appears to have been the 
literary example of this mode of imagination in his 
mind. The remoteness of such poetry from actuality, 
its pure artistic play, especially attracted him; it was 



xxviii 31ntroDuctton 

in its spirit that he wrote The Witch of Atlas, and 
time and again as in The Sensitive Plant he had drawn 
near its precincts. In the fragments Ginevra, Marenghi, 
Fiordispina he had entered on more artistic narrative 
than Julian and Maddalo, and in the fragments of 
Orpheus, and more clearly in the scenes from the 
Indian Play, he was creatively working out a new 
form of pastoral drama. In none of these various de- 
velopments of his genius, neither in the grand allegori- 
cal drama nor in artistic narrative nor in the drama of 
pastoral setting, was there much forethought or deliber- 
ate intention; they were the spontaneous movements 
of his genius ripening in art ; they were all highly ro- 
mantic, and constitute the extreme accomplishment of 
English romanticism. The part of Italy in Shelley is 
plain, — landscape, masque, and plastic form, the philo- 
sophical comment of love, the trionji ; the part of 
Greece was the form and artistic spirit of the lyric 
drama and the intellectual interpretation of love and 
beauty, — ^Eschylus and Plato ; the part of Spain was 
further to nourish him in grandiose lyric conception 
and that " flowery and starry " atmosphere in which his 
senses delighted, weaving thereof the veil of his thoughts, 
— a part inchoate and unaccomplished. In the history 
of Shelley's genius what took place was the growth of a 
rich and rare form of Renaissance art, freeing itself from 
the rationalism, speculation and political turmoil of the 
preceding age, and coming to its golden fruitage under 
southern skies in companionship with the genius of 
those climes. 

Such, in rapid outline, is the history of Shelley's 



^Introduction xxix 

genius as a great creative power. It is to be observed 
that, while the elements of passion and thought are 
permanent in his work, he had little command of the 
third province of poetry, action. The unreality that 
has been alleged against him has been already traced, 
so far as it lies in his method and style; but its chief 
cause is, perhaps, the lack of action, and the conse- 
quent loss of balance in the whole as a complete repre- 
sentation of life. His narrative lacks incident, as in 
Queen Mab and The Revolt of Islam; there is in the 
pictures that the eye forms in both something tenuous, 
languishing and sentimental in the figures, which recall 
the canvases of allegorical painters of ideal scenes, like 
Temples of Fame, or of romantic episodes or of classi- 
cal myth. Shelley's imagination sympathizes much with 
moods of painting; in his earlier works it has the remote- 
ness, diffusion, and lack of firm line that characterize a 
sentimental school. In the Prometheus Unbound the 
lack of action is, it is true, the ^Eschylean tradition of 
the play, but on the larger scale of Shelley it is more 
noticeable. The scenes change, but there is no real 
action. It is fresco-painting, huge, magnificent, superb 
in majesty and loveliness; but it is not dramatic, — 
rather is it a panorama of ideal scenes. Shelley is a 
master of the splendor as well as of the music of speech; 
in soliloquy and description, in eloquent bursts of pas- 
sion, he does not fail; but there is no knitting of the 
scenes by action, properly speaking; there is no causa- 
tion, humanly speaking, but only a self-executing pro- 
gress of fate in the abstract. The Cenci, stronger as it 
is in dramatic ways, nevertheless, finds its weakness in 



xxx ^Introduction 

these directions. In the later work, to this same absence 
of action, as a part of life, is added the fact that the 
emotion becomes ever more high-strung, the thought 
more subtle; and with all this the veil of words grows 
ever more dense with imagery. In the high creative 
part of his genius he becomes steadily more difficult; 
his last work, The Triumph of Life, only a poet can 
read easily, that is, one who is as accustomed to think 
in images as a mathematician is to think in cryptograms 
of space and number. In this part of his work Shelley's 
genius is most mediated by conscious invention, symbols 
of thought, reminiscences of past literary traditions; it 
is least direct, and operates through a high intellectual 
and artistic culture; it appeals necessarily to a small cir- 
cle. The reader consequently takes more pleasure in 
the less creative work, in scenes of nature directly de- 
scribed and moods of feeling into which no element of 
philosophy enters. The truth is that poetry is best 
when it is not mediated at all, when it is not related 
to life through any event or passion or thought, but is 
that event, passion or thought, — when it is life ; genius 
is most itself when it is unconscious of any intellectual 
process, any practical aim, any artistic means ; poetic 
genius is most pure when it is the rising up of the spirit 
of life that clothes itself, as it arises, in the mood, im- 
agery and thought of the passing moment. This was 
Shelley's way especially, in his short lyrics, which were 
the effusion of his feelings, or in the odes and other 
poems which were the expression of a personal experi- 
ence, generally filled or touched with passion or with 
that melancholy which is the shadow of passion. In 



^Introduction xxxi 

these poems he directly expresses life, as it wells from 
its inner cells. It is by these poems that he clings to 
life in others. They are gathered in this collection 
under the title, Cor Cordium ; they hold the heart of 
Shelley. The longer poems that contain his passion for 
the ideal, are at the end of the volume. Elsewhere 
will be found his passion for liberty, his dream of the 
millennial hopes of men, his life with nature, his re- 
sponse to romantic motives found in Italian story. All 
sides of his genius, as it has been here described, are 
illustrated ; but the aim of the collection is rather to 
disclose his genius in its. more intimate and familiar 
ways rather than in its creative power. His greatest 
works were never written, — '« huge cloudy symbols " 
they were even to him; but he wrote much that is for 
all lovers of poetry, and often he poured out his heart 
*' like a tired child," and in these outpourings he roost 
drew the love of men. The personality of genius is 
more than its works, in lyric art ; the ideal impulse 
that streams from Shelley is his immortal part, — from 
him it comes, from the man, and it is in the poems 
where the man is nearest that it most flows. The 
lovers of Shelley will read his greater works, his ideas, 
his high-wrought and difficult art, his dream ; but it is 
the heart of Shelley, — himself, that the world listens to. 



Select $oemss of feller 



COR CORDIUM 



HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY 

The awful shadow of some unseen Power 
Floats though unseen among us, visiting 
This various world with as inconstant wing 
As summer winds that creep from flower to 
flower ; 
Like moonbeams that behind some piny moun- 
tain shower, 
It visits with inconstant glance 
Each human heart and countenance j 
Like hues and harmonies of evening, 
Like clouds in starlight widely spread, 
Like memory of music fled, 
Like aught that for its grace may be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 

Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate 

With thine own hues all thou dost shine 
upon 



2 Select ^oem* of gtyellep 

Of human thought or form, where art thou 
gone ? 

Why dost thou pass away, and leave our state, 
This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate ? — 
Ask why the sunlight not forever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river; 
Why aught should fail and fade that once is 
shown ; 
Why fear and dream and death and birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom ; why man has such a scope 
For love and hate, despondency and hope. 



No voice from some sublimer world hath ever 
To sage or poet these responses given 
Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost and 
Heaven, 
Remain the records of their vain endeavor - 
Frail spells, whose uttered charm might no 
avail to sever, 
From all we hear and all we see, 
Doubt, chance and mutability. 
Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains 
driven, 
Or music by the night wind sent 
Through strings of some still instrument, 
Or moonlight on a midnight stream, 
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. 



; 



t^mn to intellectual Beauty 3 

Love, Hope and Self-esteem, like clouds, de- 
part, 
And come, for some uncertain moments 

lent. 
Man were immortal and omnipotent, 
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art, 
tCeep with thy glorious train firm state within 
his heart. 
Thou messenger of sympathies 
That wax and wane in lovers' eyes ! 
Thou, that to human thought art nourishment, 
Like darkness to a dying flame, 
Depart not as thy shadow came ! 
Depart not, lest the grave should be, 
Like life and fear, a dark reality ! 

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped 
Through many a listening chamber, cave 

and ruin, 
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pur- 
suing 
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead ; 
called on poisonous names with which our 
youth is fed. 
I was not heard — I saw them not — 
When, musing deeply on the lot 
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are 
wooing 



4 Select poem* of galley 

All vital things that wake to bring 
News of birds and blossoming, — 
Sudden thy shadow fell on me ; 
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy 

I vowed that I would dedicate my powers 
To thee and thine — have I not kept thej 

vow ? 
With beating heart and streaming eyes! 
even now 
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
Each from his voiceless grave : they have inj 
visioned bowers 
Of studious zeal or love's delight 
Outwatched with me the envious night — i 
They know that never joy illumed my brow 
Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free: 
This world from its dark slavery, 
That thou, O awful Loveliness, 
Wouldst give whate'er these words cannotji 
express. 



The day becomes more solemn and serene 
When noon is past ; there is a harmony 
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, 
Which through the summer is not heard or 
seen, 
As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! \ 



Wyt tEtoo Spirits; * 

Thus let thy power, which like the truth 
Of nature on my passive youth 

Descended, to my onward life supply 
Its calm, — to one who worships thee, 
And every form containing thee, 
Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind 

To fear himself, and love all humankind. 



THE TWO SPIRITS 
AN ALLEGORY 

FIRST SPIRIT 

O thou, who plumed with strong desire 

Wouldst float above the earth, beware ! 
A Shadow tracks thy flight of fire — 

Night is coming ! 
Bright are the regions of the air, 

And among the winds and beams 
It were delight to wander there — 
Night is coming ! 

SECOND SPIRIT 

The deathless stars are bright above ; 
If I would cross the shade of night, 
Within my heart is the lamp of love, 
And that is day ! 



6 ©elect poem* of &btllep 

And the moon will smile with gentle light 

On my golden plumes where'er they move ; 
The meteors will linger round my flight, 
And make night day. 

FIRST SPIRIT 

But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken 

Hail, and lightning, and stormy rain ? 

See, the bounds of the air are shaken — 

Night is coming ! 
The red swift clouds of the hurricane 
Yon declining sun have overtaken ; 
The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain — 
Night is coming ! 

SECOND SPIRIT 

I see the light, and I hear the sound ; 

I '11 sail on the flood of the tempest dark, 
With the calm within and the light around 

Which makes night day; 
And thou, when the gloom is deep and stark, 
Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound ; 
My moon-like flight thou then mayst mark 
On high, far away. 



®o Conatantia 7 

TO CONSTANTIA 
Singing 

I 

Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die, 
Perchance were death indeed ! — Con- 
stantia, turn ! 
In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, 
Even though the sounds which were thy 
voice, which burn 
Between thy lips, are laid to sleep ; 

Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like 
odor it is yet, 
And from thy touch like fire doth leap. 

Even while I write, my burning cheeks are 

wet — 
Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not 
forget ! 

II 

A breathless awe, like the swift change 
Unseen but felt in youthful slumbers, 

Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange, 
Thou breathest now in fast ascending 
numbers. 

The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven 
By the enchantment of thy strain j 



©elect J0oem$ of ©tjellep 

And on my shoulders wings are woven 
To follow its sublime career 

Beyond the mighty moons that wane 

Upon the verge of Nature's utmost sphere, 
Till the world's shadowy walls are passed 
and disappear. 

ill 

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul — it 
lingers 

O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling 
wings ; 
The blood and life within those snowy fingers 

Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. 
My brain is wild, my breath comes quick — 

The blood is listening in my frame, 
And thronging shadows, fast and thick, 

Fall on my overflowing eyes; 
My heart is quivering like a flame , 

As morning dew, that in the sunbeam uic:^ 

I am dissolved in these consuming ecstasies. 

IV 

I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, 
Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy 
song 

Flows on, and fills all things with melody. 
Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong, 



Wfyt g>en$ittoe ^lant 9 

On which, like one in trance upborne, 

Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep, 
Rejoicing like a cloud of morn ; 

Now 't is the breath of summer night, 
Which, when the starry waters sleep, 
Round western isles, with incense-blossoms 

bright, 
Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptu- 
ous flight. 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT 

PART FIRST 

A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, 
And the young winds fed it with silver dew, 
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, 
And closed them beneath the kisses of Night. 

And the Spring arose on the garden fair, 
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere ; 
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast 
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss 
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, 
Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, 
As the companionless Sensitive Plant. 



io ©elect poem* of gtyellei? 

The snowdrop, and then the violet, 
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, 
And their breath was mixed with fresh odor, sent 
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. 

Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, 
And narcissi, the fairest among them all, 
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess 
Till they die of their own dear loveliness ; 

And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, 

Whom youth makes so fair, and passion so 

pale, 
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen 
Through their pavilions of tender green ; 

And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, 
It was felt like an odor within the sense; 

And the rose like a nymph to the bath addressed, 
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ; 

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, 
As a Maenad, its moonlight-colored cup, 



W$t g>en0ittoe plant n 

Till the fiery star, which is its eye, 

Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky ; 

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tube- 
rose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows; 
And all rare blossoms from every clime 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 

And on the stream whose inconstant bosom 
Was pranked, under boughs of embowering blos- 
som, 
With golden and green light, slanting through 
Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 

Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, 

And starry river-buds glimmered by, 

And around them the soft stream did glide and 

dance 
With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. 

And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, 
Which led through the garden along and across, 
Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, 
Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees, — 

Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells, 
As fair as the fabulous asphodels, 



12 Select poem* of ^ellej? 

And flowrets which, drooping as day drooped 

too, 
Fell into pavilions white, purple and blue, 
To roof the glowworm from the evening dew. 

And from this undefiled Paradise 
The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes 
Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet 
Can first lull, and at last must awaken it) 

When Heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them 
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, 
Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one 
Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ; 

For each one was interpenetrated 

With the light and the odor its neighbor shed, 

Like young lovers whom youth and love make 

dear, 
Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. 

But the Sensitive Plant, which could give small 

fruit 
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the 

root, 
Received more than all, it loved more than ever, 
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the 

giver ; 



W$z £>m$tttoe |&lant 13 

For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower ; 
Radiance and odor are not its dower ; 
It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full, 
It desires what it has not, the beautiful ! 

The light winds which from unsustaining 

wings 
Shed the music of many murmurings ; 
The beams which dart from many a star 
Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar; 

The plumed insects swift and free, 
Like golden boats on a sunny sea, 
Laden with light and odor, which pass 
Over the gleam of the living grass ; 

The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie 
Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides high, 
Then wander like spirits among the spheres, 
Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears ; 

The quivering vapors of dim noontide, 
Which like a sea o'er the warm earth glide, 
In which every sound, and odor, and beam, 
Move, as reeds in a single stream ; — 

Each and all like ministering angels were 
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear, 



14 Select ^Boem* of gtyellep 

Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by 
Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky. 

And when evening descended from heaven above, 
And the Earth was all rest, and the air was all 

love, 
And delight, though less bright, was far more 

deep, 
And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep, 

And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects 
were drowned 

In an ocean of dreams without a sound, 

Whose waves never mark, though they ever im- 
press 

The light sand which paves it, consciousness ; 

(Only overhead the sweet nightingale 
Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, 
And snatches of its Elysian chant 
Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive 
Plant) ; — 

The Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
Upgathered into the bosom of rest; 
A sweet child weary of its delight, 
The feeblest and yet the favorite, 
Cradled within the embrace of Night. 



W$z g>ett0ittoe pant 15 



PART SECOND 

There was a Power in this sweet place, 
An Eve in this Eden ; a ruling Grace 
Which to the flowers, did they waken or dream, 
Was as God is to the starry scheme. 

A Lady, the wonder of her kind, 

Whose form was upborne by a lovely mind 

Which, dilating, had moulded her mien and 

motion 
Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean, 

Tended the garden from morn to even ; 
And the meteors of that sublunar heaven, 
Like the lamps of the air when Night walks 

forth, 
Laughed round her footsteps up from the Earth ! 

She had no companion of mortal race, 

But her tremulous breath and her flushing face 

Told, whilst the morn kissed the sleep from her 

eyes, 
That her dreams were less slumber than Para- 
dise : 

As if some bright Spirit for her sweet sake 
Had deserted heaven while the stars were awake, 



1 6 Select ^oemsf of gtyellep 

As if yet around her he lingering were, 
Though the veil of daylight concealed him from f 
her. 

Her step seemed to pity the grass it pressed ; 
You might hear, by the heaving of her breast, 
That the coming and going of the wind 
Brought pleasure there and left passion behind. ) 

And wherever her airy footstep trod, 
Her trailing hair from the grassy sod 
Erased its light vestige, with shadowy sweep, 
Like a sunny storm o'er the dark green deep. 

I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet 
Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet ; 
I doubt not they felt the spirit that came 
From her glowing fingers through all their frame. 

She sprinkled bright water from the stream 
On those that were faint with the sunny beam ; 
And out of the cups of the heavy flowers 
She emptied the rain of the thunder showers. 

She lifted their heads with her tender hands, 
And sustained them with rods and osier-bands ; 
If the flowers had been her own infants, she 
Could never have nursed them more tenderly. 



W$t g>en0tttoe jaiant 17 

And all killing insects and gnawing worms, 
And things of obscene and unlovely forms, 
She bore in a basket of Indian woof, 
Into the rough woods far aloof, — 

In a basket, of grasses and wild flowers full, 
The freshest her gentle hands could pull 
For the poor banished insects, whose intent, 
Although they did ill, was innocent. 

But the bee, and the beam-like ephemeris 
Whose path is the lightning's, and soft moths 

that kiss 
The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm not, 

did she 
Make her attendant angels be. 

And many an antenatal tomb, 
Where butterflies dream of the life to come, 
She left clinging round the smooth and dark 
Edge of the odorous cedar bark. 

This fairest creature from earliest Spring 
Thus moved through the garden ministering 
All the sweet season of Summertide, 
And ere the first leaf looked brown — she died ! 



1 8 Select poem* of gfytllty 

PART THIRD 

Three days the flowers of the garden fair, 
Like stars when the moon is awakened, were, 
Or the waves of Baiae, ere luminous 
She floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius. 

And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant 
Felt the sound of the funeral chant, 
And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow, 
And the sobs of the mourners, deep and low; 

The weary sound and the heavy breath, 
And the silent motions of passing death, 
And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank, 
Sent through the pores of the coffin plank. 

The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass, 
Were bright with tears as the crowd did pass; 
From their sighs the wind caught a mournful 

tone, 
And sate in the pines, and gave groan for groan. 

The garden, once fair, became cold and foul, 
Like the corpse of her who had been its soul 
Which at first was lovely as if in sleep, 
Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap 
To make men tremble who never weep. 



!1K\)t £>en$ittoe plant 19 

wift Summer into the Autumn flowed, 
\.nd frost in the mist of the morning rode, 
Though the noonday sun looked clear and 

bright, 
blocking the spoil of the secret night. 

The rose leaves, like flakes of crimson snow, 
paved the turf and the moss below. 
The lilies were drooping, and white, and wan, 
Like the head and the skin of a dying man. 

And Indian plants, of scent and hue 
The sweetest that ever were fed on dew, 
Leaf by leaf, day after day, 
Were massed into the common clay. 

r 

And the leaves, brown, yellow, and gray, and 

red, 
And white with the whiteness of what is 

dead, 
Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind passed ; 
i/Their whistling noise made the birds aghast. 

And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds 

Out of their birthplace of ugly weeds, 

Till they clung round many a sweet flower's 

stem, 
Which rotted into the earth with them. 

J 



20 Select poems of Relies 

The water-blooms under the rivulet 
Fell from the stalks on which they were set ; £ 
And the eddies drove them here and there, 
As the winds did those of the upper air. 



n 



Then the rain came down, and the broke 

stalks 
Were bent and tangled across the walks ; 
And the leafless network of parasite bowers 
Massed into ruin : and all sweet flowers. 



Between the time of the wind and the snow 

All loathliest weeds began to grow, 

Whose coarse leaves were splashed with many} 

a speck, 
Like the water-snake's belly and the toad'*' 

back. 

And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank, 
And the dock, and henbane, and hemlock dank, 
Stretched out its long and hollow shank, 
And stifled the air till the dead wind stank. j 

J 
And plants, at whose names the verse feels 

loath, 
Filled the place with a monstrous undergrowth, 
Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering, and blue, 
Livid, and starred with a lurid dew. 



W$t g>m$ittoe ^Blant 21 

|ind agarics and fungi, with mildew and mould- 
'tarted like mist from the wet ground cold ; 
} ale, fleshy, as if the decaying dead 
Yith a spirit of growth had been animated ! 

pawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum, 
vlade the running rivulet thick and dumb, 
Vnd at its outlet flags huge as stakes 
Cammed it up with roots knotted like water- 
snakes. 

\nd hour by hour, when the air was still, 
The vapors arose which have strength to kill ; 
At morn they were seen, at noon they were felt, 
At night they were darkness no star could melt. 

And unctuous meteors from spray to spray 
Crept and flitted in broad noonday 
Unseen ; every branch on which they alit 
By a venomous blight was burned and bit. 

The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid, 
^Wept, and the tears within each lid 
Of its folded leaves, which together grew, 
Were changed to a blight of frozen glue. 

For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon 
By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn ; 



22 Select jaoem* of ^ellep 

The sap shrank to the root through every pore* 
As blood to a heart that will beat no more. 1 

For Winter came ; the wind was his whip ; 

One choppy finger was on his lip ; 

He had torn the cataracts from the hills 

And they clanked at his girdle like manacles ; < 



His breath was a chain which without a soun 
The earth, and the air, and the water bound ; 
He came, fiercely driven, in his chariot-throne 
By the tenfold blasts of the Arctic zone. 

Then the weeds which were forms of livinf 

death 

Fled from the frost to the earth beneath. 
Their decay and sudden flight from frost 
Was but like the vanishing of a ghost ! 

And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant 
The moles and the dormice died for want ; 
The birds dropped stiff from the frozen air i 
And were caught in the branches naked and bare/ 

First there came down a thawing rain, 

And its dull drops froze on the boughs again ; 

Then there steamed up a freezing dew 

Which to the drops of the thaw-rain grew ; * 

I 



Ws>t g>m0tttoe plant 23 

And a northern whirlwind, wandering about 
Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child out, 
Shook the boughs thus laden, and heavy, and 

stiff, 
And snapped them off with his rigid griff. 

When Winter had gone and Spring came back, 

The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck ; 

But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and docks, 

and darnels, 
Rose like the dead from their ruined charnels. 



CONCLUSION 

Whether the Sensitive Plant, or that 
Which within its boughs like a Spirit sat, 
Ere its outward form had known decay, 
Now felt this change, I cannot say. 

Whether that Lady's gentle mind, 
No longer with the form combined 
Which scattered love, as stars do light, 
Found sadness, where it left delight, 

I dare not guess ; but in this life 
Of error, ignorance and strife, 
Where nothing is, but all things seem, 
And we the shadows of the dream, 



24 Select poem* of grtielUp 

It is a modest creed, and yet 
Pleasant, if one considers it, 
To own that death itself must be, 
Like all the rest, a mockery. 

That garden sweet, that lady fair, 

And all sweet shapes and odors there, 

In truth have never passed away : 

*T is we, 't is ours, are changed ; not they. 

For love, and beauty, and delight, 
There is no death nor change : their might 
Exceeds our organs, which endure 
No light, being themselves obscure. 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND 

i 

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's 

being, 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves 

dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou, 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 



®De to t\)t WLm flKKmD 25 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odors plain and hill : 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ; 
Destroyer and preserver ; hear, oh, hear ! 

II 

Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's com- 
motion, 

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are 
shed, 

Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and 
Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning : there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim 

verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou 

dirge 



26 g>elect poems of grtjeilep 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere 
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst : oh, 
hear ! 

in 

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 
So sweet the sense faints picturing them ! thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which 

wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, 
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear ! 



<®De to ttje WLm WLint* 27 

IV 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and 
share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed 
Scarce seemed a vision ; I would ne'er have 
striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and 

bowed 
One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and 

proud. 



Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 



28 Select poem* of £>t)ellei? 

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, 
My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth ! 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
Be through my lips to unawakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy ! O Wind, 

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind ? 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES 

I 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 

The waves are dancing fast and bright ; 
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 

The purple noon's transparent might ; 

The breath of the moist earth is light 
Around its unexpanded buds ; 

Like many a voice of one delight, 

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, 

The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. 



g>tan?as 29 



I see the Deep's untrampled floor 

With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; 
I see the waves upon the shore, 

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown ; 

I sit upon the sands alone — 
The lightning of the noontide ocean 

Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion, 
How sweet ! did any heart now share in my 
emotion. 

ill 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 

Nor peace within nor calm around, 
Nor that content surpassing wealth 

The sage in meditation found, 

And walked with inward glory crowned — 
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. 

Others I see whom these surround — 
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; — 
To me that cup has been dealt in another 
measure. 

IV 

Yet now despair itself is mild, 

Even as the winds and waters are ; 
I could lie down like a tired child, 



30 Select poems? of gtyellep 

And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne and yet must bear, 

Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
And I might feel in the warm air 

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 



Some might lament that I were cold, 

As I when this sweet day is gone, 
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 

Insults with this untimely moan ; 

They might lament — for I am one 
Whom men love not, — and yet regret, 

Unlike this day, which, when the sun 
Shall on its stainless glory set, 
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in mem- 
ory yet. 



TO A SKYLARK 

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from Heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 



©o a gfcplarfe 31 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever 
singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun, 
O'er which clouds are bright'ning, 

Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of Heaven 
In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, — but yet I hear thy shrill 
delight, 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear 
Until we hardly see — we feel that it is there ; 

All the earth and air 
With thy voice is loud, 



32 Select poems of gfytlltv 

As when Night is bare 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is 
overflowed. 



What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of 
melody. 

Like a Poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded 
not : . 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, — which overflows 
her bower : 

Live a glowworm golden 
In a dell of dew. 



Wo a Solaris 33 

Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass which screen it 
from the view : 



Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflowered, 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy- 
winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers, 
All that ever was 
Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth sur- 
pass. 

Teach us, Sprite or Bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine ; 

I have never heard 

Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus Hymeneal, 
Or triumphal chant, 



\ 



34 Select ^oema of Relies 

Matched with thine, would be all 
But an empty vaunt, 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden i 
want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What fields or waves or mountains ? 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance 
of pain ? 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be ; 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee ; 
Thou lovest — but ne'er knew love's sad^ 
satiety. 

Waking or asleep 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal 
stream ? 

We look before and after, 
And pine for what is not ; 



®o a gfcslarfe 35 

Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
)ur sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate and pride and fear; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
know not how thy joy we ever should come 
near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 
That in books are found, 
"hy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the 
ground ! 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow 
"he world should listen then — as I am listen- 
ing now. 



36 Select JBoems of ^elle^ 



THE CLOUD 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowen 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that wakei 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, | 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 't is my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 

Lightning my pilot sits ; 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits ; 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 



1&\)t ClouD 37 

)ver the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The Spirit he loves remains ; 
nd I all the while bask in heaven's blue 
smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

"he sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
eaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead ; 
s on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
n eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
nd when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea 
beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 
nd the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 
N^ith wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

"hat orbed maiden with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the Moon, 
rlides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 



38 ©elect poem* of Relies 

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin 
roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and 
swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, — 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march, 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chained to mj 
chair, 

Is the million-colored bow ; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 



&ZttyU!fo 39 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky ; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and 
shores ; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain 

The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex 
gleams 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from 
the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 



ARETHUSA 



Arethusa arose 

From her couch of snows 
In the Acroceraunian mountains, 

From cloud and from crag, 

With many a jag, 
Shepherding her bright fountains. 

She leapt down the rocks, 

With her rainbow locks 



40 Select potm$ of g>t)ellep 

Streaming among the streams; 

Her steps paved with green 
The downward ravine 

Which slopes to the western gleams ; 
And gliding and springing, 
She went, ever singing, 

In murmurs as soft as sleep; 

The Earth seemed to love her, 
And Heaven smiled above her, 

As she lingered towards the deep. 



Then Alpheus bold, 

On his glacier cold, 
With his trident the mountains strook ; 

And opened a chasm 

In the rocks — with the spasm 
All Erymanthus shook. 

And the black south wind 

It unsealed behind 
The urns of the silent snow, 

And earthquake and thunder 

Did rend in sunder 
The bars of the springs below. 

And the beard and the hair 

Of the River-god were 
Seen through the torrent's sweep, 



As he followed the light 
Of the fleet nymph's flight 
To the brink of the Dorian deep. 

Ill 

4 Oh, save me ! Oh, guide me! 

And bid the deep hide me, 
For he grasps me now by the hair ! ' 

The loud Ocean heard, 

To its blue depth stirred, 
And divided at her prayer ; 

And under the water 

The Earth's white daughter 
Fled like a sunny beam ; 

Behind her descended 

Her billows, unblended 
With the brackish Dorian stream. 

Like a gloomy stain 

On the emerald main 
Alpheus rushed behind, 

As an eagle pursuing 

A dove to its ruin 
Down the streams of the cloudy wind. 

IV 

Under the bowers 
Where the Ocean Powers 
Sit on their pearled thrones; 



42 gtflm poem* of gtyellei? 

Through the coral woods 
Of the weltering floods, 

Over heaps of unvalued stones ; 
Through the dim beams 
Which amid the streams 

Weave a network of colored light ; 
And under the caves, 
Where the shadowy waves 

Are as green as the forest's night ; 
Outspeeding the shark, 
And the swordfish dark, 

Under the Ocean's foam, 

And up through the rifts 
Of the mountain clifts 

They passed to their Dorian home. 



And now from their fountains 

In Enna's mountains, 
Down one vale where the morning basks, 

Like friends once parted 

Grown single-hearted, 
They ply their watery tasks. 

At sunrise they leap 

From their cradles steep 
In the cave of the shelving hill ; 

At noontide they flow 

Through the woods below 



fyymn of #pollo 43 

And the meadows of asphodel ; 

And at night they sleep 

In the rocking deep 
Beneath the Ortygian shore, 

Like spirits that lie 

In the azure sky 
When they love but live no more. 



HYMN OF APOLLO 



The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, 
Curtained with star-inwoven tapestries 

From the broad moonlight of the sky, 

Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes, 

Waken me when their Mother, the gray Dawn, 

Tells them that dreams and that the moon is 
gone. 

11 

Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome, 
I walk over the mountains and the waves, 

Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam ; 

My footsteps pave the clouds with fire ; the 
caves 

Are filled with my bright presence, and the air 

Leaves the green Earth to my embraces bare. 



44 ©>rirct $otm$ of fytyllty 

in 

The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill 
Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day ; 

All men who do or even imagine ill 
Fly me, and from the glory of my ray 

Good minds and open actions take new might, 

Until diminished by the reign of Night. 

IV 

I feed the clouds, the rainbows and the flowers 
With their ethereal colors ; the moon's globe 

And the pure stars in their eternal bowers 
Are cinctured with my power as with a robe ; 

Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine 

Are portions of one power, which is mine. 



I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven, 
Then with unwilling steps I wander down 

Into the clouds of the Atlantic even ; 

For grief that I depart they weep and frown. 

What look is more delightful than the smile 

With which I soothe them from the western 
isle ? 

VI 

I am the eye with which the Universe 
Beholds itself, and knows it is divine; 



tyymn of pan 45 

All harmony of instrument or verse, 

All prophecy, all medicine is mine, 
All light of Art or Nature ; — to my song 
Victory and praise in its own right belong. 



HYMN OF PAN 



From the forests and highlands 

We come, we come ; 
From the river-girt islands, 

Where loud waves are dumb 
Listening my sweet pipings. 
The wind in the reeds and the rushes, 

The bees on the bells of thyme, 
The birds on the myrtle bushes, 
The cicale above in the lime, 
And the lizards below in the grass, 
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, 
Listening my sweet pipings. 

II 

Liquid Peneus was flowing, 

And all dark Tempe lay 
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing 

The light of the dying day, 
Speeded by my sweet pipings. 



46 Select |&oem$ of Relies 

The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, 

And the Nymphs of the woods and the 
waves, 
To the edge of the moist river-lawns, 

And the brink of the dewy caves, 
And all that did then attend and follow, 
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, 
With envy of my sweet pipings. 

Ill 

I sang of the dancing stars, 

I sang of the daedal Earth, 
And of Heaven — and the giant wars, 

And Love, and Death, and Birth; — 
And then I changed my pipings, 
Singing how down the vale of Maenalus 

I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed. 
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus ! 

It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed. 
All wept, as I think both ye now would 
If envy or age had not frozen your blood, 
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. 



®o ttie $oon 47 

THE WORLD'S WANDERERS 



Tell me, thou Star, whose wings of light 
Speed thee in thy fiery flight, 
In what cavern of the night 

Will thy pinions close now ? 

II 

Tell me, Moon, thou pale and gray 
Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way, 
In what depth of night or day 
Seekest thou repose now ? 

Ill 

Weary Wind, who wanderest 
Like the world's rejected guest, 
Hast thou still some secret nest 
On the tree or billow ? 



TO THE MOON 

Art thou pale for weariness 
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, 

Wandering companionless 
Among the stars that have a different birth,— 
And ever changing, like a joyless eye 
That finds no object worth its constancy ? 



48 Select $3oem$ of gtyelles 

OZYMANDIAS 

I met a traveller from an antique land 
Who said : ' Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, 
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, 
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, 
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless 

things, 
The hand that mocked them and the heart that 

fed. 
And on the pedestal these words appear — 
" My name is Ozymandias, king of kings : 
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair ! " 
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare 
The lone and level sands stretch far away/ 

ODE TO HEAVEN 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS 

FIRST SPIRIT 

Palace-roof of cloudless nights ! 
Paradise of golden lights ! 
Deep, immeasurable, vast, 



®&e to ^eatom 49 

Which art now, and which wert then, 

Of the present and the past, 
Of the eternal where and when, 

Presence-chamber, temple, home, 

Ever-canopying dome 

Of acts and ages yet to come ! 

Glorious shapes have life in thee, 
Earth, and all earth's company ; 

Living globes which ever throng 
Thy deep chasms and wildernesses ; 

And green worlds that glide along; 
And swift stars with flashing tresses ; 

And icy moons most cold and bright, 

And mighty suns beyond the night, 

Atoms of intensest light. 

Even thy name is as a god, 
Heaven ! for thou art the abode 

Of that Power which is the glass 
Wherein man his nature sees. 

Generations as they pass 
Worship thee with bended knees. 

Their unremaining gods and they 

Like a river roll away ; 

Thou remainest such — alway ! 



50 Select poem* of g^elle}? 

SECOND SPIRIT 

Thou art but the mind's first chamber, 
Round which its young fancies clamber, 

Like weak insects in a cave, 
Lighted up by stalactites ; 

But the portal of the grave, 
Where a world of new delights 

Will make thy best glories seem 

But a dim and noonday gleam 

From the shadow of a dream ! 

THIRD SPIRIT 

Peace ! the abyss is wreathed with scorn 
At your presumption, atom-born ! 

What is heaven ? and what are ye 
Who its brief expanse inherit ? 

What are suns and spheres which flee 
With the instinct of that Spirit 

Of which ye are but a part ? 

Drops which Nature's mighty heart 

Drives through thinnest veins. Depart ! 

What is heaven ? a globe of dew, 
Filling in the morning new 

Some eyed flower whose young leaves waken 
On an unimagined world ; 

Constellated suns unshaken, 



an (flirtation 51 

Orbits measureless, are furled 
In that frail and fading sphere, 
With ten millions gathered there, 
To tremble, gleam, and disappear. 



AN EXHORTATION 

Chameleons feed on light and air ; 

Poets' food is love and fame ; 
If in this wide world of care 

Poets could but find the same 
With as little toil as they, 

Would they ever change their hue 

As the light chameleons do, 
Suiting it to every ray 

Twenty times a day ? 

Poets are on this cold earth, 

As chameleons might be, 
Hidden from their early birth 

In a cave beneath the sea. 
Where light is, chameleons change ; 

Where love is not, poets do; 

Fame is love disguised ; if few 
Find either, never think it strange 
That poets range. 



52 Select potma of £>t)rilei? 

Yet dare not stain with wealth or power 

A poet's free and heavenly mind. 
If bright chameleons should devour 

Any food but beams and wind, 
They would grow as earthly soon 

As their brother lizards are. 

Children of a sunnier star, 

Spirits from beyond the moon, 

Oh, refuse the boon ! 



SONG 



Rarely, rarely, comest thou, 

Spirit of Delight ! 
Wherefore hast thou left me now 

Many a day and night ? 
Many a weary night and day 
'T is since thou art fled away. 



How shall ever one like me 
Win thee back again ? 

With the joyous and the free 
Thou wilt scofFat pain. 

Spirit false ! thou hast forgot 

All but those who need thee not. 



§>ong 53 

in 

As a lizard with the shade 

Of a trembling leaf, 
Thou with sorrow art dismayed ; 

Even the sighs of grief 
Reproach thee, that thou art not near, 
And reproach thou wilt not hear. 

IV 

Let me set my mournful ditty 

To a merry measure ; 
Thou wilt never come for pity, 

Thou wilt come for pleasure ; 
Pity then will cut away 
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 



I love all that thou lovest, 

Spirit of Delight ! 
The fresh Earth in new leaves dressed, 

And the starry night; 
Autumn evening, and the morn 
When the golden mists are born. 

VI 

I love snow, and all the forms 
Of the radiant frost ; 



54 Select ^oem* of Relies 

I love waves, and winds, and storms, 

Everything almost 
Which is Nature's, and may be 
Untainted by man's misery. 

VII 

I love tranquil solitude, 

And such society 
As is quiet, wise, and good ; 

Between thee and me 
What difference ? but thou dost possess 
The things I seek, not love them less. 

VIII 

I love Love — though he has wings, 

And like light can flee, 
But above all other things, 

Spirit, I love thee. 
Thou art love and life ! Oh, come, 
Make once more my heart thy home. 



TO NIGHT 



Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, 

Spirit of Night ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave, 



®0 jiaig&t 55 

Where all the long and lone daylight 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, 
"Which make thee terrible and dear, — 
Swift be thy flight ! 



Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day ; 
Kiss her until she be wearied out ; 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long-sought ! 

in 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee ; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sighed for thee. 

IV 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me ? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 



56 Select |0oem$ of g^ellep 

Murmured like a noontide bee, 
Shall I nestle near thy side ? 
Wouldst thou me ? — and I replied, 
No, not thee ! 



Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon ; 
Sleep will come when thou art fled; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night, — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon ! 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY 



The fountains mingle with the river, 

And the rivers with the ocean ; 
The winds of heaven mix forever 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle : 

Why not I with thine ? 



Wqz 31n&tan &erenaftr 57 

11 

See the mountains kiss high heaven, 

And the waves clasp one another; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea : 
What are all these kissings worth, 

If thou kiss not me ? 

THE INDIAN SERENADE 



I arise from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night, 
When the winds are breathing low, 
And the stars are shining bright; 
I arise from dreams of thee, 
And a spirit in my feet 
Hath led me — who knows how? 
To thy chamber window, sweet ! 



The wandering airs, they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream ; 
The champak odors fail 
Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 



58 ©elect poem* of Relies 

The nightingale's complaint, 
It dies upon her heart, 
As I must die on thine, 
Oh, beloved as thou art ! 

Ill 

Oh, lift me from the grass ! 
I die ! I faint ! I fail ! 
Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
My heart beats loud and fast, 
Oh ! press it close to thine again, 
Where it will break at last. 



TO 



One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdained 

For thee to disdain it ; 
One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother, 
And pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 



tEo 59 

ii 

I can give not what men call love, 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the Heavens reject not, — 
The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 



TO 



I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden, 
Thou needest not fear mine j 

My spirit is too deeply laden 
Ever to burden thine. 

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion, 
Thou needest not fear mine ; 

Innocent is the heart's devotion 
With which I worship thine. 

TO 



When passion's trance is overpast, 
If tenderness and truth could last, 



60 Select poems of gfytllty 

Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep 
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep, 
I should not weep, I should not weep ! 

II 

It were enough to feel, to see 

Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly, 

And dream the rest — and burn and be 

The secret food of fires unseen, 

Couldst thou but be as thou hast been. 

Ill 

After the slumber of the year 
The woodland violets reappear ; 
All things revive in field or grove, 
And sky and sea, but two, which move 
And form all others, life and love. 



FROM THE ARABIC 

AN IMITATION 

I 

My faint spirit was sitting in the light 
Of thy looks, my love ; 
It panted for thee like the hind at noon 
For the brooks, my love. 



W$t #5tola 6 1 

Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's 
flight, 
Bore thee far from me ; 
My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, 
Did companion thee. 

II 
Ah ! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, 
Or the death they bear, 
The heart which tender thought clothes like 
a dove 
With the wings of care ; 
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, 
Shall mine cling to thee, 
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, 
It may bring to thee. 



THE AZIOLA 



' Do you not hear the Aziola cry ? 
Methinks she must be nigh,' 
Said Mary, as we sate 
In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles brought ; 

And I, who thought 
This Aziola was some tedious woman, 
Asked, « Who is Aziola ? ' How elate 



62 Select ^oerns of gtyellep 

I felt to know that it was nothing human, 
No mockery of myself to fear or hate ! 

And Mary saw my soul, 
And laughed, and said, c Disquiet yourself not, 

'T is nothing but a little downy owl.' 



Sad Aziola ! many an eventide 

Thy music I had heard 
By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side,. 

And fields and marshes wide, — 
Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird,, 

The soul ever stirred ; 
Unlike and far sweeter than them ajl. 
Sad Aziola ! from that moment I 

Loved thee and thy sad cry. 

GOOD-NIGHT 

i 

Good-night ? ah, no ! the hour is ill 
Which severs those it should unite ; 

Let us remain together still, 
Then it will be good night. 



How can I call the lone night good, 

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight ? 



iLinetf 63 

Be it not said, thought, understood, 
Then it will be good night. 

Ill 

To hearts which near each other move 
From evening close to morning light, 

The night is good j because, my love, 
They never say good-night. 



TO-MORROW 

Where art thou, beloved To-morrow ? 

When young and old, and strong and weak, 
lich and poor, through joy and sorrow, 

Thy sweet smiles we ever seek, — 
'n thy place — ah ! well-a-day ! 
We find the thing we fled — To-day. 



LINES 

If I walk in Autumn's even 
While the dead leaves pass, 

If I look on Spring's soft heaven, — 
Something is not there which was. 

Winter's wondrous frost and snow, 

Summer's clouds, where are they now ? 



64 Select $oems of S>t»elle^ 

MUTABILITY 



The flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow dies ; 
All that we wish to stay, 

Tempts and then flies. 
What is this world's delight ? 
Lightning that mocks the night, 
Brief even as bright. 

II 

Virtue, how frail it is ! 

Friendship how rare ! 
Love, how it sells poor bliss 

For proud despair ! 
But we, though soon they fall, 
Survive their joy and all 
Which ours we call. 

in 

Whilst skies are blue and bright, 
Whilst flowers are gay, 

Whilst eyes that change ere night 
Make glad the day, 

Whilst yet the calm hours creep, 

Dream thou — and from thy sleep 
Then wake to weep. 



Remembrance 65 

REMEMBRANCE 



Swifter far than summer's flight, 
Swifter far than youth's delight, 
Swifter far than happy night, 

Art thou come and gone. 
As the wood when leaves are shed, 
As the night when sleep is fled, 
As the heart when joy is dead, 

I am left lone, alone. 

II 

The swallow summer comes again, 
The owlet night resumes his reign, 
But the wild swan youth is fain 

To fly with thee, false as thou. 
My heart each day desires the morrow ; 
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow ; 
Vainly would my winter borrow 

Sunny leaves from any bough. 

ill 

Lilies for a bridal bed, 
Roses for a matron's head, 
Violets for a maiden dead — 
Pansies let my flowers be ; 



66 Select $oem$ of Relies 

On the living grave I bear, 
Scatter them without a tear — 
Let no friend, however dear, 

Waste one hope, one fear for me. 



LINES 



When the lamp is shattered, 
The light in the dust lies dead ; 

When the cloud is scattered, 
The rainbow's glory is shed ; 

When the lute is broken, 
Sweet tones are remembered not 

When the lips have spoken, 
Loved accents are soon forgot. 



As music and splendor 
Survive not the lamp and the lute, 

The heart's echoes render 
No song when the spirit is mute : — 

No song but sad dirges, 
Like the wind through a ruined cell, 

Or the mournful surges 
That ring the dead seaman's knell. 



t&irnt ILong past 67 

in 

When hearts have once mingled, 
Love first leaves the well-built nest ; 

The weak one is singled 
To endure what it once possessed. 

O Love ! who bewailest 
The frailty of all things here, 

Why choose you the frailest 
For your cradle, your home, and your bier ? 

IV 

Its passions will rock thee, 
\s the storms rock the ravens on high ; 

Bright reason will mock thee, 
Like the sun from a wintry sky. 

From thy nest every rafter 
Will rot, and thine eagle home 

Leave thee naked to laughter, 
When leaves fall and cold winds come. 

TIME LONG PAST 
1 
Like the ghost of a dear friend dead 

Is Time long past. 
\ tone which is now forever fled, 
\ hope which is now forever past, 
\ love so sweet it could not last, 
Was Time long past. 



68 Select poems; of gtyellei? 



There were sweet dreams in the night 

Of Time long past. 
And, was it sadness or delight, 
Each day a shadow onward cast 
Which made us wish it yet might last 

That Time long past. 

Ill 

There is regret, almost remorse, 

For Time long past. 
'T is like a child's beloved corse 
A father watches, till at last 
Beauty is like remembrance cast 

From Time long past. 



LINES 

Far, far away, O ye 
Halcyons of Memory, 
Seek some far calmer nest 
Than this abandoned breast ! 
No news of your false spring 
To my heart's winter bring ; 
Once having gone, in vain 
Ye come again. 



®o Cotoaro Militants 69 



Vultures, who build your bowers 
High in the Future's towers, 
Withered hopes on hopes are spread ! 
Dying joys, choked by the dead, 
Will serve your beaks for prey 
Many a day. 

TO EDWARD WILLIAMS 



'he serpent is shut out from paradise. 
The wounded deer must seek the herb no more 

In which its heart-cure lies ; 
The widowed dove must cease to haunt a 
bower, 
,ike that from which its mate with feigned sighs 
Fled in the April hour. 
I, too, must seldom seek again 
Jear happy friends a mitigated pain. 

II 
)f hatred I am proud, — with scorn content ; 
Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown 

Itself indifferent ; 
But, not to speak of love, pity alone 
3an break a spirit already more than bent. 
The miserable one 



7° ©elect |0orot0 of g>t)elUp 

Turns the mind's poison into food, — 
Its medicine is tears, — its evil good. 

Ill 
Therefore if now I see you seldomer, 

Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fli 

Your looks, because they stir 
Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that car 
not die. 
The very comfort that they minister 
I scarce can bear; yet I, 
So deeply is the arrow gone, 
Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn. 

IV 
When I return to my cold home, you ask 
Why I am not as I have ever been. 

You spoil me for the task 
Of acting a forced part in life's dull scene, 
Of wearing on my brow the idle mask 
Of author, great or mean, 
In the world's carnival. I sought 
Peace thus, and but in you I found it not. 

v 
Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot 

With various flowers, and every one still said 

'She loves me — loves me not.' 
And if this meant a vision long since fled — 



©o CDtoarU ffl&illiam* 7 1 

f it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thought — 
If it meant, — but I dread 
To speak what you may know too well : 
ill there was truth in the sad oracle. 

VI 

Hie crane o'er seas and forests seeks her 
home; 
No bird so wild but has its quiet nest, 

When it no more would roam ; 
The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast 
Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam, 
And thus at length find rest : 
Doubtless there is a place of peace 
Where my weak heart and all its throbs will 
cease. 

VII 

I asked her, yesterday, if she believed 
That I had resolution. One who had 

Would ne'er have thus relieved 
His heart with words, — but what his judg- 
ment bade 
Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved. 
These verses are too sad 
To send to you, but that I know, 
Happy yourself, you feel another's woe. 



72 Select poems; of %>\)t\\tv 

TO JANE 

THE INVITATION 

Best and brightest, come away ! 
Fairer far than this fair day, 
Which, like thee to those in sorrow, 
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 
To the rough year just awake 
In its cradle on the brake. 
The brightest hour of unborn Spring, 
Through the winter wandering, 
Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn, 
To hoar February born. 
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, 
It kissed the forehead of the Earth, 
And smiled upon the silent sea, 
And bade the frozen streams be free, 
And waked to music all their fountains, 
And breathed upon the frozen mountains, 
And like a prophetess of May 
Strewed flowers upon the barren way, 
Making the wintry world appear 
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 

Away, away, from men and towns, 
To the wild wood and the downs ; 
To the silent wilderness 



tEo 3Iane 73 

Where the soul need not repress 
Its music, lest it should not find 
An echo in another's mind, 
While the touch of Nature's art 
Harmonizes heart to heart. 
I leave this notice on my door 
For each accustomed visitor : — 
4 1 am gone into the fields 
To take what this sweet hour yields. 
Reflection, you may come to-morrow, 
Sit by the fireside with Sorrow. 
You with the unpaid bill, Despair, — 
You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care, — 
I will pay you in the grave, — 
Death will listen to your stave. 
Expectation too, be off! 
To-day is for itself enough. 
Hope, in pity mock not Woe 
With smiles, nor follow where I go; 
Long having lived on thy sweet food, 
At length I find one moment's good 
After long pain — with all your love, 
This you never told me of.' 

Radiant Sister of the Day, 
Awake ! arise ! and come away ! 
To the wild woods and the plains, 
And the pools where winter rains 



74 Select poems; of g>t)elle£ 

Image all their roof of leaves, 
Where the pine its garland weaves 
Of sapless green, and ivy dun, 
Round stems that never kiss the sun ; 
Where the lawns and pastures be 
And the sand-hills of the sea ; 
Where the melting hoar-frost wets 
The daisy-star that never sets, 
And wind-flowers and violets, 
Which yet join not scent to hue, 
Crown the pale year weak and new ; 
When the night is left behind 
In the deep east, dun and blind, 
And the blue noon is over us, 
And the multitudinous 
Billows murmur at our feet, 
Where the earth and ocean meet, 
And all things seem only one 
In the universal sun. 

THE RECOLLECTION 

Now the last day of many days, 
All beautiful and bright as thou, 

The loveliest and the last, is dead, — 
Rise, Memory, and write its praise ! 
Up, — to thy wonted work ! come, trace 

The epitaph of glory fled, 



®o 31ane 75 

For now the Earth has changed its face, 
A frown is on the Heaven's brow. 



We wandered to the Pine Forest 

That skirts the Ocean's foam, 
The lightest wind was in its nest, 

The tempest in its home. 
The whispering waves were half asleep, 

The clouds were gone to play, 
And on the bosom of the deep 

The smile of Heaven lay ; 
It seemed as if the hour were one 

Sent from beyond the skies, 
Which scattered from above the sun 

A light of Paradise. 

Ill 

We paused amid the pines that stood 

The giants of the waste, 
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude 

As serpents interlaced, 
And soothed by every azure breath, 

That under heaven is blown, 
To harmonies and hues beneath, 

As tender as its own ; 
Now all the treetops lay asleep, 

Like green waves on the sea, 



76 Select $otm& of grtjelle]? 

As still as in the silent deep 
The ocean woods may be. 

IV 

How calm it was ! — the silence there 

By such a chain was bound 
That even the busy woodpecker 

Made stiller by her sound 
The inviolable quietness ; 

The breath of peace we drew 
With its soft motion made not less 

The calm that round us grew. 
There seemed, from the remotest seat 

Of the white mountain waste 
To the soft flower beneath our feet, 

A magic circle traced, 
A spirit interfused around, 

A thrilling silent life, — 
To momentary peace it bound 

Our mortal nature's strife; 
And still I felt the centre of 

The magic circle there 
Was one fair form that filled with love 

The lifeless atmosphere. 



We paused beside the pools that lie 
Under the forest bough, — 



®o 3|ane 77 

Each seemed as 't were a little sky 

Gulfed in a world below ; 
A firmament of purple light, 

Which in the dark earth lay, 
More boundless than the depth of night, 

And purer than the day, — 
In which the lovely forests grew, 

As in the upper air, 
More perfect both in shape and hue 

Than any spreading there. 
There lay the glade and neighboring lawn, 

And through the dark green wood 
The white sun twinkling like the dawn 

Out of a speckled cloud. 
Sweet views which in our world above 

Can never well be seen, 
Were imaged by the water's love 

Of that fair forest green. 
And all was interfused beneath 

With an Elysian glow, 
An atmosphere without a breath, 

A softer day below. 
Like one beloved the scene had lent 

To the dark water's breast, 
Its every leaf and lineament 

With more than truth expressed ; 
Until an envious wind crept by, 

Like an unwelcome thought, 



78 Select $oem* of Relies 

Which from the mind's too faithful eye 

Blots one dear image out. 
Though thou art ever fair and kind, 

The forests ever green, 
Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind, 

Than calm in waters, seen. 



WITH A GUITAR: TO JANE 

Ariel to Miranda : — Take 
This slave of Music, for the sake 
Of him who is the slave of thee ; 
And teach it all the harmony 
In which thou canst, and only thou, 
Make the delighted spirit glow, 
Till joy denies itself again, 
And, too intense, is turned to pain. 
For by permission and command 
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 
Poor Ariel sends this silent token 
Of more than ever can be spoken; 
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who 
From life to life must still pursue 
Your happiness, — for thus alone 
Can Ariel ever find his own. 
From Prospero's enchanted cell, 
As the mighty verses tell, 
To the throne of Naples he 



WLiti) a Guitar: to 31ane 79 

Lit you o'er the trackless sea, 

Flitting on, your prow before, 

Like a living meteor. 

When you die, the silent Moon, 

In her interlunar swoon, 

Is not sadder in her cell 

Than deserted Ariel. 

When you live again on earth, 

Like an unseen star of birth 

Ariel guides you o'er the sea 

Of life from your nativity. 

Many changes have been run 

Since Ferdinand and you begun 

Your course of love, and Ariel still 

Has tracked your steps and served your will ; 

Now in humbler, happier lot, 

This is all remembered not ; 

And now, alas ! the poor sprite is 

Imprisoned, for some fault of his, 

In a body like a grave. 

From you he only dares to crave, 

For his service and his sorrow, 

A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 

The artist who this idol wrought 
To echo all harmonious thought, 
Felled a tree, while on the steep 
The woods were in their winter sleep, 



80 Select y&otm* of gtyellei? 

Rocked in that repose divine 

On the wind-swept Apennine ; 

And dreaming, some of Autumn past, 

And some of Spring approaching fast, 

And some of April buds and showers 

And some of songs in July bowers, 

And all of love ; and so this tree — 

Oh, that such our death may be ! — 

Died in sleep, and felt no pain, 

To live in happier form again : 

From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star, 

The artist wrought this loved guitar, 

And taught it justly to reply, 

To all who question skilfully, 

In language gentle as thine own; 

Whispering in enamoured tone 

Sweet oracles of woods and dells, 

And summer winds in sylvan cells ; 

For it had learned all harmonies 

Of the plains and of the skies, 

Of the forests and the mountains, 

And the many-voiced fountains ; 

The clearest echoes of the hills, 

The softest notes of falling rills, 

The melodies of birds and bees, 

The murmuring of summer seas, 

And pattering rain, and breathing dew, 

And airs of evening ; and it knew 



W$t Magnetic !La&£ to tyx patient 81 

That seldom-heard mysterious sound, 
Which, driven on its diurnal round, 
As it floats through boundless day, 
Our world enkindles on its way. 
All this it knows, but will not tell 
To those who cannot question well 
The spirit that inhabits it ; 
It talks according to the wit 
Of its companions ; and no more 
Is heard than has been felt before 
By those who tempt it to betray 
These secrets of an elder day. 
But, sweetly as its answers will 
Flatter hands of perfect skill, 
It keeps its highest, holiest tone 
For our beloved Jane alone. 

THE MAGNETIC LADY TO HER 
PATIENT 

i 
* Sleep, sleep on ! forget thy pain j 

My hand is on thy brow, 
My spirit on thy brain ; 
My pity on thy heart, poor friend ; 

And from my fingers flow 
The powers of life, and like a sign, 

Seal thee from thine hour of woe ; 



82 Select $otm* of $>\)tlltv 

And brood on thee, but may not blend 
With thine. 



4 Sleep, sleep on ! I love thee not ; 

But when I think that he 
Who made and makes my lot 
As full of flowers, as thine of weeds, 

Might have been lost like thee ; 
And that a hand which was not mine' 

Might then have charmed his agony 
As I another's — my heart bleeds 
For thine. 

in 
4 Sleep, sleep, and with the slumber of 

The dead and the unborn 
Forget thy life and love ; 
Forget that thou must wake forever ; 

Forget the world's dull scorn ; 
Forget lost health, and the divine 

Feelings which died in youth's brief morn 
And forget me, for I can never 
Be thine. 

IV 
4 Like a cloud big with a May shower, 

My soul weeps healing rain 
On thee, thou withered flower; 



®o 31ane 83 

It breathes mute music on thy sleep ; 

Its odor calms thy brain ! 
Its light within thy gloomy breast 

Spreads like a second youth again. 
By mine thy being is to its deep 
Possessed. 



4 The spell is done. How feel you now ? ' 

1 Better — quite well,' replied 
The sleeper, — l What would do 
You good when suffering and awake ? 

What cure your head and side ? ' 
1 What would cure, that would kill me, Jane ; 

And as I must on earth abide 
Awhile, yet tempt me not to break 
My chain. ' 

TO JANE 

1 

The keen stars were twinkling, 
And the fair moon was rising among them, 
Dear Jane. 
The guitar was tinkling, 
But the notes were not sweet till you sung 
them 
Again. 



84 Select poem* of &\)t\\tv 

ii 

As the moon's soft splendor 
O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven 
Is thrown, 
So your voice most tender 
To the strings without soul had then given 
Its own. 

Ill 

The stars will awaken, 
Though the moon sleep a full hour later 
To-night ; 
No leaf will be shaken 
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter 
Delight. 

IV 

Though the sound overpowers, 
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing 
A tone 
Of some world far from ours, 
Where music and moonlight and feeling 
Are one. 



ilinca Written in ttje 315a£ of iUrict 85 

LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY OF 
LERICI 

She left me at the silent time 

When the moon had ceased to climb 

The azure path of Heaven's steep, 

And like an albatross asleep, 

Balanced on her wings of light, 

Hovered in the purple night, 

Ere she sought her ocean nest 

In the chambers of the West. 

She left me, and I stayed alone 

Thinking over every tone 

Which, though silent to the ear, 

The enchanted heart could hear, 

Like notes which die when born, but still 

Haunt the echoes of the hill ; 

And feeling ever — oh, too much ! — 

The soft vibration of her touch, 

As if her gentle hand, even now, 

Lightly trembled on my brow ; 

And thus, although she absent were, 

Memory gave me all of her 

That even Fancy dares to claim : — 

Her presence had made weak and tame 

All passions, and I lived alone 

In the time which is our own ; 



86 Select poems of £>t)elle£ 

The past and future were forgot, 

As they had been, and would be, not. 

But soon, the guardian angel gone, 

The daemon reassumed his throne 

In my faint heart. I dare not speak 

My thoughts, but thus disturbed and weak 

I sat and saw the vessels glide 

Over the ocean bright and wide, 

Like spirit-winged chariots sent 

O'er some serenest element 

For ministrations strange and far ; 

As if to some Elysian star 

They sailed for drink to medicine 

Such sweet and bitter pain as mine. 

And the wind that winged their flight 

From the land came fresh and light, 

And the scent of winged flowers, 

And the coolness of the hours 

Of dew, and sweet warmth left by day, 

Were scattered o'er the twinkling bay. 

And the fisher with his lamp 

And spear about the low rocks damp 

Crept, and struck the fish which came 

To worship the delusive flame. 

Too happy they, whose pleasure sought 

Extinguishes all sense and thought 

Of the regret that pleasure leaves, 

Destroying life alone, not peace ! 



a Jlament 87 



A DIRGE 

Rough wind, that moanest loud 
Grief too sad for song ; 
Wild wind, when sullen cloud 
Knells all the night long ; 
Sad storm, whose tears are vain, 
Bare woods whose branches strain, 
Deep caves and dreary main, — 
Wail, for the world's wrong. 



A LAMENT 



O world ! O life ! O time ! 
On whose last steps I climb, 

Trembling at that where I had stood before ; 
When will return the glory of your prime ? 
No more — oh, never more ! 

II 

Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight ; 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, 
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight 
No more — oh, never more ! 



88 Select poem* of grtjellep 

TIME 

Unfathomable Sea ! whose waves are years, 
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe 
Are brackish with the salt of human tears ! 
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and 
flow 
Claspest the limits of mortality, 

And sick of prey, yet howling on for more, 
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore;; 
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm, 
Who shall put forth on thee, 
Unfathomable Sea ? 



TO 



Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory ; 
Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 
Are heaped for the beloved's bed ; 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 
Love itself shall slumber on. 



LYRIC DRAMA 



FROM PRINCE ATHANASE 

T was at the season when the Earth upsprings 
from slumber, as a sphered angel's child, 
shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings, 

kands up before its mother bright and mild, 
3f whose soft voice the air expectant seems — 
jo stood before the sun, which shone and smiled 

To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams, 
The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove 
Waxed green, and flowers burst forth like starry 
beams ; 

The grass in the warm sun did start and move, 
And sea-buds burst beneath the waves serene. 
How many a one, though none be near to love, 

Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen 
[n any mirror, or the spring's young minions, 
The winged leaves amid the copses green ! 



90 Select jaoema of g^elle^ 

How many a spirit then puts on the pinions 
Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast, 
And his own steps, and over wide dominions 

Sweeps in his dream - drawn chariot, far an 

fast, 
More fleet than storms — the wide world shrinkl 

below, 
When winter and despondency are passed ! 



FROM PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 
I. SPIRIT-SONG 

On a poet's lips I slept 

Dreaming like a love-adept 

In the sound his breathing kept ; 

Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, 

But feeds on the aerial kisses 

Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses 

He will watch from dawn to gloom 

The lake-reflected sun illume 

The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, 

Nor heed nor see what things they be ; 

But from these create he can 

Forms more real than living man, 

Nurslings of immortality ! 



ifrom gromettjeu* tEnbounD 91 

II. THE FORM OF LOVE 
FIFTH SPIRIT 

As over wide dominions 

I sped, like some swift cloud that wings the 
wide air's wildernesses, 

That planet-crested Shape swept by on light- 
ning-braided pinions, 

Scattering the liquid joy of life from his ambro- 
sial tresses. 

His footsteps paved the world with light ; but as 
I passed 't was fading, 

And hollow Ruin yawned behind; great sages 
bound in madness, 

And headless patriots, and pale youths who 
perished, unupbraiding, 

Gleamed in the night. I wandered o'er, till thou, 
O King of sadness, 

Turned by thy smile the worst I saw to recol- 
lected gladness. 

SIXTH SPIRIT 

Ah, sister ! Desolation is a delicate thing : 

It walks not on the earth, it floats not on the 

air, 
But treads with lulling footstep, and fans with 

silent wing 



92 Select jaoema of ^elley 

The tender hopes which in their hearts the best 

and gentlest bear; 
Who, soothed to false repose by the fanning 

plumes above 
And the music-stirring motion of its soft and 

busy feet, 
Dream visions of aerial joy, and call the monster, 

Love, 
And wake, and find the shadow Pain, as he 

whom now we greet. 

III. THE JOURNEY OF ASIA 

Scene, Morning. A lovely Vale in the Indian Caucasus. 
Asia, alone. 

ASIA 

From all the blasts of heaven thou hast de-i 

scended ; 
Yes, like a spirit, like a thought, which makes 
Unwonted tears throng to the horny eyes, 
And beatings haunt the desolated heart, 
Which should have learned repose; thou hast 

descended 
Cradled in tempests ; thou dost wake, O Spring ! 
O child of many winds ! As suddenly 
Thou comest as the memory of a dream, 
Which now is sad because it hath been sweet ; 
Like genius, or like joy which riseth up 



jFrom JBrometfjeu* tKnbounD 93 

As from the earth, clothing with golden clouds 

The desert of our life. 

This is the season, this the day, the hour ; 

At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister 

mine, 

Too long desired, too long delaying, come ! 
How like death-worms the wingless moments 

crawl ! 

The point of one white star is quivering still 
Deep in the orange light of widening morn 
Beyond the purple mountains ; through a chasm 
Of wind-divided mist the darker lake 
Reflects it ; now it wanes ; it gleams again 
As the waves fade, and as the burning threads 
Of woven cloud unravel in pale air ; 
T is lost ! and through yon peaks of cloudlike 

snow 
The roseate sunlight quivers ; hear I not 
The i^Eolian music of her sea-green plumes 
Winnowing the crimson dawn ? 

Panthea enters. 



PANTHEA 

Pardon, great Sister ! but my wings were 

faint 
With the delight of a remembered dream, 



94 Select poems of ^eile^ 

ASIA 

Lift up thine eyes, 
And let me read thy dream. 

Thine eyes are like the deep, blue, boundless 

heaven 
Contracted to two circles underneath 
Their long, fine lashes ; dark, far, measureless, 
Orb within orb, and line through line inwoven. 

PANTHEA 

Why lookest thou as if a spirit passed ? 

ASIA 

What shape is that between us ? Its rude hair 
Roughens the wind that lifts it, its regard 
Is wild and quick, yet 't is a thing of air, 
For through its gray robe gleams the golden 

dew 
Whose stars the noon has quenched not. 

DREAM 

Follow ! Follow ! 

PANTHEA 

It is mine other dream. 



iFrom $tomtt\)tu$ tanbounD 95 

ASIA 

It disappears. 

PANTHEA 

t passes now into my mind. Methought 
^.s we sate here, the flower-infolding buds 
Surst on yon lightning-blasted almond tree; 
Vhen swift from the white Scythian wilderness 
^. wind swept forth wrinkling the Earth with 

frost ; 
looked, and all the blossoms were blown 

down ; 
Jut on each leaf was stamped, as the blue bells 
)f Hyacinth tell Apollo's written grief, 
)h, follow, follow ! 

ASIA 

As you speak, your words 
"ill, pause by pause, my own forgotten sleep 
kVith shapes. Methought among these lawns 

together 

iVe wandered, underneath the young gray dawn, 
\.nd multitudes of dense white fleecy clouds 
^Vere wandering in thick flocks along the moun- 
tains, 

Jhepherded by the slow, unwilling wind ; 
\nd the white dew on the new-bladed grass, 
fust piercing the dark earth, hung silently ; 



96 Select $owi0 of ^ellep 

And there was more which I remember not ; 
But on the shadows of the morning clouds, 
Athwart the purple mountain slope, was writter 
Follow, oh, follow ! as they vanished by ; 
And on each herb, from which Heaven's deu 

had fallen, 

The like was stamped, as with a withering fire 
A wind arose among the pines ; it shook 
The clinging music from their boughs, and thet 
Low, sweet, faint sounds, like the farewell dtj 

ghosts, 
Were heard : oh, follow, follow, follow 

ME ! 

And then I said, ' Panthea, look on me.' 
But in the depth of those beloved eyes 
Still I saw, follow, follow ! 

ECHO 

Follow, follow 

PANTHEA 

The crags, this clear spring morning, mock ou 

voices, 
As they were spirit-tongued. 

ASIA 

It is some being 
Around the crags. What fine clear sounds ! Oh 
list! 



iFrom Prometheus mnbounD 97 

echoes, unseen 

Echoes we : listen ! 

We cannot stay: 
As dew-stars glisten 

Then fade away — 
Child of Ocean ! 

ASIA 

Tark ! Spirits speak. The liquid responses 
)f their aerial tongues yet sound. 

PANTHEA 

I hear. 

ECHOES 

Oh, follow, follow, 

As our voice recedeth 
Through the caverns hollow, 
Where the forest spreadeth ; 
(More distant) 
Oh, follow, follow ! 
Through the caverns hollow, 
As the song floats thou pursue, 
Where the wild bee never flew, 
Through the noontide darkness deep, 
By the odor-breathing sleep 
Of faint night-flowers, and the waves 
At the fountain-lighted caves, 



98 Select poems; of gtyellei? 

While our music, wild and sweet, 
Mocks thy gently falling feet, 
Child of Ocean ! 



ASIA 

Shall we pursue the sound ? It grows more fail 
And distant. 

PANTHEA 

List ! the strain floats nearer nov 

ECHOES 

In the world unknown 
Sleeps a voice unspoken ; 

By thy step alone 

Can its rest be broken ; 
Child of Ocean ! 

ASIA 

How the notes sink upon the ebbing wind ! 

ECHOES 

Oh, follow, follow ! 

Through the caverns hollow, 
As the song floats thou pursue, 
By the woodland noontide dew; 
By the forests, lakes, and fountains, 
Through the many-folded mountains ; 



iFrom ^romertieus tDJnbounD 99 

To the rents, and gulfs, and chasms, 
Where the Earth reposed from spasms, 
On the day when He and thou 
Parted, to commingle now ; 
Child of Ocean ! 

ASIA 

!ome, sweet Panthea, link thy hand in mine, 
nd follow, ere the voices fade away. 

:ene, A Forest, intermingled nvith rocks and caverns. 
Asia and Panthea pass into it. T<wo young Fauns 
are sitting on a rock listening. 

SEMICHORUS I OF SPIRITS 

Tie path through which that lovely twain 
Have passed, by cedar, pine, and yew, 
And each dark tree that ever grew, 
Is curtained out from Heaven's wide blue ; 

For sun, nor moon, nor wind, nor rain, 
Can pierce its interwoven bowers, 
Nor aught, save where some cloud of dew, 

•rifted along the earth-creeping breeze 

etween the trunks of the hoar trees, 

Hangs each a pearl in the pale flowers 
Of the green laurel blown anew, 

nd bends, and then fades silently, 

>ne frail and fair anemone ; 

>r when some star of many a one 

LOFC. 



ioo Select poem* of g^elle^ 

That climbs and wanders through steep night, 

Has found the cleft through which alone 

Beams fall from high those depths upon, — 

Ere it is borne away, away, 

By the swift Heavens that cannot stay, 

It scatters drops of golden light, 

Like lines of rain that ne'er unite ; 

And the gloom divine is all around; 

And underneath is the mossy ground. 



Scene, A Pinnacle of Rock among Mountains. 

ASIA 
• •••••■ 

Look, sister, ere the vapor dim thy brain : 
Beneath is a wide plain of billowy mist, 
As a lake, paving in the morning sky, 
With azure waves which burst in silver light. 
Some Indian vale. Behold it, rolling on 
Under the curdling winds, and islanding 
The peak whereon we stand, midway, arounc 
Encinctured by the dark and blooming forest: 
Dim twilight-lawns, and stream-illumed cav< 
And wind-enchanted shapes of wandering mis 
And far on high the keen sky-cleaving mountai 
From icy spires of sunlike radiance fling 
The dawn, as lifted Ocean's dazzling spray, 
From some Atlantic islet scattered up, 



jfrom promettjma mnbouno 101 

pangles the wind with lamp-like water-drops, 
"he vale is girdled with their walls, a howl 
)f cataracts from their thaw-cloven ravines 
atiates the listening wind, continuous, vast, 
Lwful as silence. Hark ! the rushing snow ! 
"he sun-awakened avalanche ! whose mass, 
"hrice sifted by the storm, had gathered there 
'lake after flake, in heaven-defying minds 
is thought by thought is piled, till some great 

truth 
s loosened, and the nations echo round, 
haken to their roots, as do the mountains now. 

PANTHEA 

^ook how the gusty sea of mist is breaking 
n crimson foam, even at our feet ! it rises 
Vs Ocean at the enchantment of the moon 
lound foodless men wrecked on some oozy isle. 

ASIA 

The fragments of the cloud are scattered up ; 
rhe wind that lifts them disentwines my hair ; 
its billows now sweep o'er mine eyes ; my brain 
3rows dizzy ; see'st thou shapes within the mist ? 

PANTHEA 

& countenance with beckoning smiles ; there 
burns 



102 Select |3ontt0 of $t>ellei> 

An azure fire within its golden locks ! 
Another and another : hark ! they speak ! 

SONG OF SPIRITS 

To the deep, to the deep, 

Down, down ! 
Through the shade of sleep, 
Through the cloudy strife 
Of Death and of Life ; 
Through the veil and the bar 
Of things which seem and are, 
Even to the steps of the remotest throne, 

Down, down ! 

While the sound whirls around, 

Down, down ! 
As the fawn draws the hound, 
As the lightning the vapor, 
As a weak moth the taper ; 
Death, despair ; love, sorrow ; 
Time, both ; to-day, to-morrow ; 
As steel obeys the spirit of the stone, 

Down, down ! 

Through the gray, void abysm, 

Down, down ! 
Where the air is no prism, 
And the moon and stars are not, 



ifrom prometijeutf tOJubounto 103 

And the cavern-crags wear not 
The radiance of Heaven, 
Nor the gloom to Earth given, 
Where there is One pervading, One alone, 
Down, down ! 

In the depth of the deep 

Down, down ! 
Like veiled lightning asleep, 
Like the spark nursed in embers, 
The last look Love remembers, 
Like a diamond, which shines 
On the dark wealth of mines, 
A spell is treasured but for thee alone. 

Down, down ! 

We have bound thee, we guide thee ; 

Down, down ! 
With the bright form beside thee ; 
Resist not the weakness, 
Such strength is in meekness 
That the Eternal, the Immortal, 
Must unloose through life's portal 
The snake-like Doom coiled underneath his 
throne 

By that alone. 



104 Select poem* of gtyellep 

Scene, The Ca<ve of Demogorgon. 



DEMOGORGON I 

Behold * r 

ASIA 

The rocks are cloven, and through the purpln 

night | 

I see cars drawn by rainbow-winged steeds 
Which trample the dim winds ; in each then 

stands 
A wild-eyed charioteer urging their flight. 
Some look behind, as fiends pursued them 

there, 
And yet I see no shapes but the keen stars ; 
Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, ancj 

drink 
With eager lips the wind of their own speed, 
As if the thing they loved fled on before, 
And now, even now, they clasped it. Theii 

bright locks 
Stream like a comet's flashing hair ; they all 
Sweep onward. 

DEMOGORGON 

These are the immortal Hours, 
Of whom thou didst demand 



ifrom jarometlieuflf mnbounD 105 

PANTHEA 

e, near the verge, another chariot stays ; 

1 ivory shell inlaid with crimson fire, 

r hich comes and goes within its sculptured 

rim 
f delicate strange tracery ; the young Spirit 
hat guides it has the dove-like eyes of hope ; 
ow its soft smiles attract the soul ! as light 
ires winged insects through the lampless air. 

spirit 

[y coursers are fed with the lightning, 
They drink of the whirlwind's stream, 

nd when the red morning is bright'ning 
They bathe in the fresh sunbeam ; 
They have strength for their swiftness I 
deem ; 

'hen ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. 

desire — and their speed makes night kindle ; 

I fear — they outstrip the typhoon ; 
re the cloud piled on Atlas can dwindle 

We encircle the earth and the moon. 

We shall rest from long labors at noon ; 
Tien ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. 



106 Select poem* of %>\)tllty 

Scene, The Car pauses within a Cloud on the Top oj\[ 
a snonvy Mountain. Asia, Panthea, and the Spiri 
of the Hour. 

SPIRIT 

On the brink of the night and the morning 

My coursers are wont to respire; 
But the Earth has just whispered a warning 

That their flight must be swifter than fire; 

They shall drink the hot speed of desire ! 



ASIA 

Thy words are sweeter than aught else but his 
Whose echoes they are ; yet all love is sweet 
Given or returned. Common as light is love, 
And its familiar voice wearies not ever. 
Like the wide heaven, the all-sustaining air, 
It makes the reptile equal to the God ; 
They who inspire it most are fortunate, 
As I am now ; but those who feel it most 
Are happier still, after long sufferings, 
As I shall soon become. 

PANTHEA 

List ! Spirits speakJ 
VOICE in the air t singing 

Life of Life, thy lips enkindle 

With their love the breath between them ; 



ifrom |3romrtt)eu0 ^nbounD 107 

nd thy smiles before they dwindle 
Make the cold air fire ; then screen them 
1 those looks, where whoso gazes 
aints, entangled in their mazes. 

hild of Light ! thy limbs are burning 
Through the vest which seems to hide them ; 

s the radiant lines of morning 
Through the clouds, ere they divide them ; 

nd this atmosphere divinest 

irouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. 

air are others ; none beholds thee, 
But thy voice sounds low and tender 

ike the fairest, for it folds thee 
From the sight, that liquid splendor, 

.nd all feel, yet see thee never, 

■j I feel now, lost forever ! 

,amp of earth ! where'er thou movest 
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, 

>.nd the souls of whom thou lovest 
Walk upon the winds with lightness, 

"ill they fail, as I am failing, 

)izzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! 

ASIA 

My soul is an enchanted boat, 
Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float 



108 Select poem* of §>tjdlei? 

Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing; 

And thine doth like an angel sit 

Beside a helm conducting it, 
Whilst all the winds with melody are rin£ 
ing. 

It seems to float ever, forever, 

Upon that many-winding river, 

Between mountains, woods, abysses, 

A paradise of wildernesses ! 
Till, like one in slumber bound, 
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around, 
Into a sea profound of ever-spreading sound. 

Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions 
In music's most serene dominions ; 

Catching the winds that fan that happy heavei 
And we sail on, away, afar, 
Without a course, without a star, 

But, by the instinct of sweet music driven ; 
Till through Elysian garden islets 
By thee, most beautiful of pilots, 
Where never mortal pinnace glided, 
The boat of my desire is guided ; 

Realms where the air we breathe is love, 

Which in the winds and on the waves dot 
move, 

Harmonizing this earth with what we fee 
above. 



jFrom ^romettjeu* mnbounD 109 

We have passed Age's icy caves, 

And Manhood's dark and tossing waves, 

ind Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to betray ; 

1 Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee 
Of shadow-peopled Infancy, 

rhrough Death and Birth, to a diviner day ; 
A paradise of vaulted bowers 
Lit by downward-gazing flowers, 
And watery paths that wind between 
Wildernesses calm and green, 

Peopled by shapes too bright to see, 

And rest, having beheld ; somewhat like thee ; 

Which walk upon the sea, and chant melodi- 
ously ! 

IV. THE MILLENNIUM 

I 

THE PROPHECY OF PROMETHEUS 
PROMETHEUS 

Asia, thou light of life, 
Shadow of beauty unbeheld ; and ye, 
Fair sister nymphs, who made long years of 

P am 1 j 

Sweet to remember, through your love and 

care ; 
Henceforth we will not part. There is a cave, 



no Select poems of £>f)elle£ 

All overgrown with trailing odorous plants, 
Which curtain out the day with leaves anf^ 

flowers, 
And paved with veined emerald ; and a founl 

tain 
Leaps in the midst with an awakening sound. ,|C 
From its curved roof the mountain's frozei'l 

tears, I 

Like snow, or silver, or long diamond spires, 
Hang downward, raining forth a doubtful light; 
And there is heard the ever-moving air, 
Whispering without from tree to tree, and birds 
And bees ; and all around are mossy seats, 
And the rough walls are clothed with long sof 

grass ; 
A simple dwelling, which shall be our own ; 
Where we will sit and talk of time and change. 
As the world ebbs and flows, ourselves un-» 

changed. 
What can hide man from mutability ? 
And if ye sigh, then I will smile; and thou, 
lone, shalt chant fragments of sea-music, 
Until I weep, when ye shall smile away 
The tears she brought, which yet were sweet 

to shed. 
We will entangle buds and flowers and beams 
Which twinkle on the fountain's brim, and make 
Strange combinations out of common things, 



jfrom prometljeutf tDJnbountj 



in 



,ike human babes in their brief innocence ; 
,nd we will search, with looks and words of 

love, 
or hidden thoughts, each lovelier than the 

last, 
)ur unexhausted spirits ; and, like lutes 
rouched by the skill of the enamoured wind, 
ATeave harmonies divine, yet ever new, 
?rom difference sweet where discord cannot be ; 
\nd hither come, sped on the charmed winds, 
Which meet from all the points of heaven — 

as bees 
From every flower aerial Enna feeds 
At their known island-homes in Himera — 
The echoes of the human world, which tell 
Of the low voice of love, almost unheard, 
And dove-eyed pity's murmured pain, and music, 
Itself the echo of the heart, and all 
That tempers or improves man's life, now 

free; 
And lovely apparitions, — dim at first, 
Then radiant, as the mind arising bright 
From the embrace of beauty (whence the 

forms 
Of which these are the phantoms) casts on them 
The gathered rays which are reality — 
Shall visit us, the progeny immortal 
Of Painting, Sculpture, and rapt Poesy, 



U2 Select poems? of gtyelley 

And arts, though unimagined, yet to be ; 
The wandering voices and the shadows these ( 
Of all that man becomes, the mediators 
Of that best worship, love, by him and us 
Given and returned; swift shapes and sound] 

which grow 

More fair and soft as man grows wise and kinr 
And, veil by veil, evil and error fall. 
Such virtue has the cave and place around. 

\Turning to the Spirit of the Hour 
For thee, fair Spirit, one toil remains. lone, 
Give her that curved shell, which Proteus old I 
Made Asia's nuptial boon, breathing within it 
A voice to be accomplished, and which thou 
Didst hide in grass under the hollow rock. 

IONE 

Thou most desired Hour, more loved and lovelj 
Than all thy sisters, this is the mystic shell. 
See the pale azure fading into silver 
Lining it with a soft yet glowing light. 
Looks it not like lulled music sleeping there ? 

SPIRIT 

It seems in truth the fairest shell of Ocean : 
Its sound must be at once both sweet an 
strange. 



jFrom y&tomtt\)tu$ mnbounD 113 

PROMETHEUS 

jo, borne over the cities of mankind 

3n whirlwind-footed coursers ; once again 

Dutspeed the sun around the orbed world ; 

\nd as thy chariot cleaves the kindling air, 

Thou breathe into the many-folded shell, 

Loosening its mighty music ; it shall be 

A.s thunder mingled with clear echoes ; then 

Return ; and thou shalt dwell beside our cave. 

11 

THE MUSIC OF THE SHELL 

The Spirit of the Hour enters 

SPIRIT OF THE HOUR 

Soon as the sound had ceased whose thunder 

filled 
The abysses of the sky and the wide earth, 
There was a change ; the impalpable thin air 
And the all-circling sunlight were transformed, 
As if the sense of love, dissolved in them, 
Had folded itself round the sphered world. 
My vision then grew clear, and I could see 
Into the mysteries of the universe. 
Dizzy as with delight I floated down ; 
Winnowing the lightsome air with languid 

plumes, 



n4 Select poems? of gtyellei? 

My coursers sought their birthplace in the sun, 
Where they henceforth will live exempt from 

toil, 
Pasturing flowers of vegetable fire, 
And where my moonlike car will stand within 
A temple, gazed upon by Phidian forms 
Of thee, and Asia, and the Earth, and me, 
And you, fair nymphs, looking the love we 

feel, — 
In memory of the tidings it has borne, — 
Beneath a dome fretted with graven flowers, 
Poised on twelve columns of resplendent stone, 
And open to the bright and liquid sky. 
Yoked to it by an amphisbenic snake 
The likeness of those winged steeds will mock 
The flight from which they find repose. Alas, 
Whither has wandered now my partial tongue 
When all remains untold which ye would hear? 
As I have said, I floated to the earth ; 
It was, as it is still, the pain of bliss 
To move, to breathe, to be. I wandering went 
Among the haunts and dwellings of mankind, 
And first was disappointed not to see 
Such mighty change as I had felt within 
Expressed in outward things ; but soon I looked, 
And behold, thrones were kingless, and men 

walked 
One with the other even as spirits do — 



3From JBrometljeua tfltnbounD 115 

None fawned, none trampled ; hate, disdain, or 

fear, 
Self-love or self-contempt, on human brows 
No more inscribed, as o'er the gate of hell, 
f All hope abandon, ye who enter here.' 
None frowned, none trembled, none with eager 

fear 
Gazed on another's eye of cold command, 
Until the subject of a tyrant's will 
Became, worse fate, the abject of his own, 
Which spurred him, like an outspent horse, to 

death. 
None wrought his lips in truth-entangling lines 
Which smiled the lie his tongue disdained to 

speak. 
None, with firm sneer, trod out in his own heart 
The sparks of love and hope till there remained 
Those bitter ashes, a soul self-consumed, 
And the wretch crept a vampire among men, 
Infecting all with his own hideous ill. 
None talked that common, false, cold, hollow 

talk 
Which makes the heart deny the yes it breathes, 
Yet question that unmeant hypocrisy 
With such a self-mistrust as has no name. 
And women, too, frank, beautiful, and kind, 
As the free heaven which rains fresh light and 

dew 



n6 Select poems? of gtyeliep 

On the wide earth, passed ; gentle, radiant 

forms, 
From custom's evil taint exempt and pure ; 
Speaking the wisdom once they could not think, 
Looking emotions once they feared to feel, 
And changed to all which once they dared not 

be, 
Yet being now, made earth like heaven j nor 

pride, 
Nor jealousy, nor envy, nor ill shame, 
The bitterest of those drops of treasured gall, 
Spoiled the sweet taste of the nepenthe, love. 

Thrones, altars, judgment-seats, and prisons, 

wherein, 
And beside which, by wretched men were borne 
Sceptres, tiaras, swords, and chains, and tomes 
Of reasoned wrong, glozed on by ignorance, 
Were like those monstrous and barbaric shapes, 
The ghosts of a no-more-remembered fame 
Which from their unworn obelisks, look forth 
In triumph o'er the palaces and tombs 
Of those who were their conquerors; moulder- 
ing round, 
These imaged to the pride of kings and priests 
A dark yet mighty faith, a power as wide 
As is the world it wasted, and are now 
But an astonishment ; even so the tools 



ifrom JBromettieus mnbounD 117 

And emblems of its last captivity, 
Amid the dwellings of the peopled earth, 
Stand, not o'erthrown, but unregarded now. 
And those foul shapes, — abhorred by god and 

man, 
Which, under many a name and many a form 
Strange, savage, ghastly, dark, and execrable, 
Were Jupiter, the tyrant of the world, 
And which the nations, panic-stricken, served 
With blood, and hearts broken by long hope, 

and love 
Dragged to his altars soiled and garlandless, 
And slain amid men's unreclaiming tears, 
Flattering the thing they feared, which fear was 

hate, — 
Frown, mouldering fast, o'er their abandoned 

shrines. 
The painted veil, by those who were, called 

life, 
Which mimicked, as with colors idly spread, 
All men believed or hoped, is torn aside ; 
The loathsome mask has fallen, the man remains 
Sceptreless, free, uncircumscribed, but man 
Equal, unclassed, tribeless, and nationless, 
Exempt from awe, worship, degree, the king 
Over himself; just, gentle, wise; but man 
Passionless — no, yet free from guilt or pain, 
Which were, for his will made or suffered them ; 



n8 Select poem* of $&$rib? 

Nor yet exempt, though ruling them like slaves, 
From chance, and death, and mutability, 
The clogs of that which else might oversoar 
The loftiest star of unascended heaven, 
Pinnacled dim in the intense inane. 

Ill 

THE PAGEANT OF THE EARTH AND THE MOON 
PANTHEA 

But see where, through two openings in the 

forest 
Which hanging branches overcanopy, 
And where two runnels of a rivulet, 
Between the close moss violet-inwoven, 
Have made their path of melody, like sisters 
Who part with sighs that they may meet in 

smiles, 
Turning their dear disunion to an isle 
Of lovely grief, a wood of sweet sad thoughts ; 
Two visions of strange radiance float upon 
The ocean-like enchantment of strong sound, 
Which flows intenser, keener, deeper yet, 
Under the ground and through the windless air. 

IONE 

I see a chariot like that thinnest boat 

In which the mother of the months is borne 



ifrom prometyeus tmnbounD 119 

By ebbing light into her western cave, 
When she upsprings from interlunar dreams ; 
O'er which is curved an orb-like canopy 
Of gentle darkness, and the hills and woods, 
Distinctly seen through that dusk airy veil, 
Regard like shapes in an enchanter's glass ; 
Its wheels are solid clouds, azure and gold, 
Such as the genii of the thunder-storm 
Pile on the floor of the illumined sea 
When the sun rushes under it ; they roll 
And move and grow as with an inward wind ; 
Within it sits a winged infant — white 
Its countenance, like the whiteness of bright 

snow, 
Its plumes are as feathers of sunny frost, 
Its limbs gleam white, through the wind-flowing 

folds 
Of its white robe, woof of ethereal pearl. 
Its hair is white, the brightness of white light 
Scattered in strings ; yet its two eyes are heavens 
Of liquid darkness, which the Deity 
Within seems pouring, as a storm is poured 
From jagged clouds, out of their arrowy lashes, 
Tempering the cold and radiant air around 
With fire that is not brightness ; in its hand 
It sways a quivering moonbeam, from whose 

point 
A guiding power directs the chariot's prow 



120 Select poems? of %>\)t\lty 

Over its wheeled clouds, which as they roll 
Over the grass, and flowers, and waves, wake 

sounds, 
Sweet as a singing rain of silver dew. 

PANTHEA 

And from the other opening in the wood 
Rushes, with loud and whirlwind harmony, 
A sphere, which is as many thousand spheres ; 
Solid as crystal, yet through all its mass 
Flow, as through empty space, music and light; 
Ten thousand orbs involving and involved, 
Purple and azure, white, and green, and golden, 
Sphere within sphere ; and every space between 
Peopled with unimaginable shapes, 
Such as ghosts dream dwell in the lampless 

deep; 
Yet each inter-transpicuous ; and they whirl 
Over each other with a thousand motions, 
Upon a thousand sightless axles spinning, 
And with the force of self-destroying swiftness, 
Intensely, slowly, solemnly roll on, 
Kindling with mingled sounds, and many tones, 
Intelligible words and music wild. 
With mighty whirl the multitudinous orb 
Grinds the bright brook into an azure mist 
Of elemental subtlety, like light ; 
And the wild odor of the forest flowers, 



i 



jfrom JBromettjeua flflnbouna 121 

The music of the living grass and air, 

The emerald light of leaf-entangled beams, 

Round its intense yet self-conflicting speed 

Seem kneaded into one aerial mass 

Which drowns the sense. Within the orb itself, 

Pillowed upon its alabaster arms, 

Like to a child o'erwearied with sweet toil, 

On its own folded wings and wavy hair 

The Spirit of the Earth is laid asleep, 

And you can see its little lips are moving, 

Amid the changing light of their own smiles, 

Like one who talks of what he loves in dream. 

IONE 

'T is only mocking the orb's harmony. 

PANTHEA 

And from a star upon its forehead shoot, 
Like swords of azure fire or golden spears 
With tyrant-quelling myrtle overtwined, 
Embleming heaven and earth united now, 
Vast beams like spokes of some invisible wheel 
Which whirl as the orb whirls, swifter than 

thought, 
Filling the abyss with sun-like lightnings, 
And perpendicular now, and now transverse, 
Pierce the dark soil, and as they pierce and 

pass 



122 Select poems of ^rlle^ 

Make bare the secrets of the earth's deep heart 
Infinite mines of adamant and gold, 
Valueless stones, and unimagined gems, 
And caverns on crystalline columns poised 
With vegetable silver overspread; 
Wells of unfathomed fire, and water-springs 
Whence the great sea even as a child is fed, 
Whose vapors clothe earth's monarch moun- 
tain-tops 
With kingly, ermine snow. The beams flash 

on 
And make appear the melancholy ruins 
Of cancelled cycles; anchors, beaks of ships; 
Planks turned to marble ; quivers, helms, and 

spears, 
And gorgon-headed targes, and the wheels 
Of scythed chariots, and the emblazonry 
Of trophies, standards, and armorial beasts, 
Round which death laughed, sepulchred emblems 
Of dead destruction, ruin within ruin ! 
The wrecks beside of many a city vast, 
Whose population which the earth grew over 
Was mortal, but not human ; see, they lie, 
Their monstrous works, and uncouth skeletons, 
Their statues, homes and fanes ; prodigious 

shapes 
Huddled in gray annihilation, split, 
Jammed in the hard, black deep ; and over these, 



ifrom promettwt* tElnbount) 123 

The anatomies of unknown winged things, 
And fishes which were isles of living scale, 
And serpents, bony chains, twisted around 
The iron crags, or within heaps of dust 
To which the tortuous strength of their last 

pangs 
Had crushed the iron crags ; and over these 
The jagged alligator, and the might 
Of earth-convulsing behemoth, which once 
Were monarch beasts, and on the slimy shores, 
And weed-overgrown continents of earth, 
Increased and multiplied like summer worms 
On an abandoned corpse, till the blue globe 
Wrapped deluge round it like a cloak, and they 
Yelled, gasped, and were abolished; or some 

God, 
Whose throne was in a comet, passed, and cried, 
c Be not ! ' and like my words they were no more. 

IV 
THE TRIUMPHAL SONG OF THE EARTH. 

' T is love, all love ! 

THE EARTH 

It interpenetrates my granite mass, 
Through tangled roots and trodden clay doth 
pass 



124 Select poems of £>tjeilep 

Into the utmost leaves and delicatest flowers ; 
Upon the winds, among the clouds 't is spread, 
It wakes a life in the forgotten dead, — 

They breathe a spirit up from their obscurest 
bowers ; 

And like a storm bursting its cloudy prison 
With thunder, and with whirlwind, has arisen 
Out of the lampless caves of unimagined being ; 
With earthquake shock and swiftness making 

shiver 
Thought's stagnant chaos, unremoved forever, 
Till hate, and fear, and pain, light-vanquished 
shadows, fleeing, 

Leave Man, who was a many-sided mirror 
Which could distort to many a shape of er- 
ror 
This true fair world of things, a sea reflecting 
love ; 
Which over all his kind, as the sun's heaven 
Gliding o'er ocean, smooth, serene, and even, 
Darting from starry depths radiance and life 
doth move : 

Leave Man even as a leprous child is left, 
Who follows a sick beast to some warm 
cleft 



ifrom ^romettjm* tdnbouna 125 

Of rocks, through which the might of healing 
springs is poured ; 
Then when it wanders home with rosy smile, 
Unconscious, and its mother fears awhile 

It is a spirit, then weeps on her child restored : 

Man, oh, not men ! a chain of linked thought, 
Of love and might to be divided not, 
Compelling the elements with adamantine 
stress; 
As the sun rules even with a tyrant's gaze 
The unquiet republic of the maze 
Of planets, struggling fierce towards heaven's 
free wilderness : 

Man, one harmonious soul of many a soul, 
Whose nature is its own divine control, 
r Where all things flow to all, as rivers to the 
sea; 
Familiar acts are beautiful through love ; 
Labor, and pain, and grief, in life's green 
grove 
'Sport like tame beasts ; none knew how gentle 
L they could be ! 



His will, with all mean passions, bad de- 
lights, 
j. And selfish cares, its trembling satellites, 

i 



126 Select |aoems of gfytllty 

A spirit ill to guide, but mighty to obey, 
Is as a tempest-winged ship, whose helm 
Love rules, through waves which dare not 
overwhelm, 
Forcing life's wildest shores to own its sover- 
eign sway. 

All things confess his strength. Through the 

cold mass 
Of marble and of color his dreams pass — 
Bright threads whence mothers weave the robes 
their children wear ; 
Language is a perpetual Orphic song, 
Which rules with daedal harmony a throng 
Of thoughts and forms, which else senseless and 
shapeless were. 

The lightning is his slave; heaven's utmost 

deep 
Gives up her stars, and like a flock of sheep 
They pass before his eye, are numbered, and 
roll on ! 
The tempest is his steed, he strides the air ; 
And the abyss shouts from her depth laid,, 
bare, 
4 Heaven, hast thou secrets ? Man unveils me ; 
I have none.' 



jFrom ^rometijeutf tanbounfc 127 

V 

THE HYMN OF DEMOGORGON 
DEMOGORGON 

Thou, Earth, calm empire of a happy soul, 
Sphere of divinest shapes and harmonies, 

Beautiful orb ! gathering as thou dost roll 
The love which paves thy path along the 
skies : 

THE EARTH 

I hear : I am as a drop of dew that dies. 

DEMOGORGON 

Thou, Moon, which gazest on the nightly Earth 

With wonder, as it gazes upon thee ; 
Whilst each to men, and beasts, and the swift 

birth 
Of birds, is beauty, love, calm, harmony : 

THE MOON 

1 1 hear : I am a leaf shaken by thee. 

DEMOGORGON 

^Ye kings of suns and stars, Daemons and Gods, 
Ethereal Dominations, who possess 

1 Elysian, windless, fortunate abodes 

Beyond Heaven's constellated wilderness : 



128 Select ^oems of £tyelle£ 

A VOICE {from above} 

Our great Republic hears : we are blessed, and 
bless. 

DEMOGORGON 

Ye happy dead, whom beams of brightest verse 
Are clouds to hide, not colors to portray, 

Whether your nature is that universe 
Which once ye saw and suffered — 

A VOICE FROM BENEATH 

Or, as they 
Whom we have left, we change and pass away. 

DEMOGORGON 

Ye elemental Genii, who have homes 

From man's high mind even to the central 
stone v 

Of sullen lead ; from Heaven's star-fretted domes 
To the dull weed some sea-worm battens on : 

A CONFUSED VOICE , 

We hear : thy words waken Oblivion. 

DEMOGORGON ^ 

Spirits, whose homes are flesh ; ye beasts and 
birds, I 

Ye worms and fish ; ye living leaves and buds ; 

1 



ifrom Prometheus tanbouna 129 

Lightning and wind ; and ye untamable herds, 
Meteors and mists, which throng air's soli- 
tudes : 



A VOICE 

Thy voice to us is wind among still woods. 

DEMOGORGON 

Man, who wert once a despot and a slave, 

A dupe and a deceiver, a decay, 
A traveller from the cradle to the grave 

Through the dim night of this immortal day : 

ALL 

Speak : thy strong words may never pass away. 

DEMOGORGON 

This is the day which down the void abysm 
At the Earth-born's spell yawns for Heaven's 

despotism, 
And Conquest is dragged captive through the 

deep ; 
Love, from its awful throne of patient power 
In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour 

Of dread endurance, from the slippery, steep, 
And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs 
And folds over the world its healing wings. 



130 Select ponutf of &>\)tl\ty 

Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endurance — 
These are the seals of that most firm assurance 

Which bars the pit over Destruction's strength; 
And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, 
Mother of many acts and hours, should free 

The serpent that would clasp her with his 
length, 
These are the spells by which to reassume 
An empire o'er the disentangled doom. 

To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite ; 
To forgive wrongs darker than death or night ; 

To defy Power, which seems omnipotent ; 
To love, and bear ; to hope till Hope creates 
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates ; 

Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent ; 
This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be 
Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free ; 
This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory ! 



FROM THE INDIAN PLAY 

INDIAN YOUTH and LADY 
INDIAN 

And, if my grief should still be dearer to me 
Than all the pleasures in the world beside, 



jFrom tije 3f|n&ian ^lap 131 

Why would you lighten it ? — 

LADY 

I offer only 
That which I seek, some human sympathy 
In this mysterious island. 

INDIAN 

Oh, my friend, 
My sister, my beloved ! — What do I say ? 
My brain is dizzy, and I scarce know whether 
I speak to thee or her. 

LADY 

Peace, perturbed heart ! 
I am to thee only as thou to mine, 
The passing wind which heals the brow at noon, 
And may strike cold into the breast at night, 
Yet cannot linger where it soothes the most, 
Or long soothe could it linger. 

INDIAN 

But you said 
You also loved ? 

LADY 

Loved ! Oh, I love. Methinks 
This word of love is fit for all the world, 



132 Select poems? of Relies 

And that for gentle hearts another name 
Would speak of gentler thoughts than the world 

owns. 
I have loved. 

INDIAN 

And thou lovest not ? if so 
Young as thou art thou canst afford to weep. 

LADY 

Oh, would that I could claim exemption 
From all the bitterness of that sweet name. 
I loved, I love, and when I love no more 
Let joys and grief perish, and leave despair 
To ring the knell of youth. He stood beside 

me, 
The embodied vision of the brightest dream, 
Which like a dawn heralds the day of life ; 
The shadow of his presence made my world 
A paradise. All familiar things he touched, 
All common words he spoke, became to me 
Like forms and sounds of a diviner world. 
He was as is the sun in his fierce youth, 
As terrible and lovely as a tempest ; 
He came, and went, and left me what I am. 
Alas ! Why must I think how oft we two 
Have sate together near the river springs, 
Under the green pavilion which the willow 



iFrom tlje 31nDian piap 133 

Spreads on the floor of the unbroken fountain, 
Strewn, by the nurslings that linger there, 
Over that islet paved with flowers and moss, — 
While the musk-rose leaves, like flakes of crim- 
son snow, 
Showered on us, and the dove mourned in the 

pine, 
Sad prophetess of sorrows not her own ? 
The crane returned to her unfrozen haunt, 
And the false cuckoo bade the spray good morn j 
And on a wintry bough the widowed bird, 
Hid in the deepest night of ivy-leaves, 
Renewed the vigils of a sleepless sorrow. 
I, left like her, and leaving one like her, 
Alike abandoned and abandoning 
(Oh ! unlike her in this !) the gentlest youth, 
Whose love had made my sorrows dear to 

him, 
Even as my sorrow made his love to me ! 

INDIAN 

One curse of Nature stamps in the same mould 

The features of the wretched; and they are 

As like as violet to violet, 

When memory, the ghost, their odors keeps 

Mid the cold relics of abandoned joy. 

Proceed. 



i34 detect poem* of gtyellei? 






LADY 



He was a simple innocent boy. 
I loved him well, but not as he desired ; 
Yet even thus he was content to be: — 
A short content, for I was — 

INDIAN (aside) 

God of heaven ! 
From such an islet, such a river-spring! 
I dare not ask her if there stood upon it 
A pleasure-dome, surmounted by a crescent, 
With steps to the blue water. (Aloud) It may 

be 
That Nature masks in life several copies 
Of the same lot, so that the sufferers 
May feel another's sorrow as their own 
And find in friendship what they lost in love. 
That cannot be : yet it is strange that we, 
From the same scene, by the same path to 

this 
Realm of abandonment . . . But speak ! your 

breath — 
Your breath is like soft music, your words 

are 
The echoes of a voice which on my heart 
Sleeps like a melody of early days. 
But as you said — 



jFrom tlje 31nuian piap 135 

LADY 

He was so awful, yet 
So beautiful in mystery and terror, 
Calming me as the loveliness of heaven 
Soothes the unquiet sea : — and yet not so, 
For he seemed stormy, and would often seem 
A quenchless sun masked in portentous clouds ; 
For such his thoughts, and even his actions 

were; 
But he was not of them, nor they of him, 
But as they hid his splendor from the earth. 
Some said he was a man of blood and peril, 
And steeped in bitter infamy to the lips. 
More need was there I should be innocent, 
More need that I should be most true and 

kind, 
And much more need that there should be found 

one 
To share remorse and scorn and solitude, 
And all the ills that wait on those who do 
The tasks of ruin in the world of life. 
He fled, and I have followed him. 

INDIAN 

Such a one 
Is he who was the winter of my peace. 
But, fairest stranger, when didst thou depart 



13 6 $>t\ttt $otm# of £>tjellep 

From the far hills where rise the springs of 

India ? 
How didst thou pass the intervening sea ? 



LADY 

If I be sure I am not dreaming now, 
I should not doubt to say it was a dream. 
Methought a star came down from heaven, 
And rested mid the plants of India, 
Which I had given a shelter from the frost 
Within my chamber. There the meteor lay, 
Panting forth light among the leaves and flowers, 
As if it lived, and was outworn with speed ; 
Or that it loved, and passion made the pulse 
Of its bright life throb like an anxious heart, 
Till it diffused itself, and all the chamber 
And walls seemed melted into emerald fire 
That burned not ; in the midst of which ap- 
peared 
A spirit like a child, and laughed aloud 
A thrilling peal of such sweet merriment 
As made the blood tingle in my warm feet ; 
Then bent over a vase, and murmuring 
Low, unintelligible melodies, 
Placed something in the mould like melon- 
seeds, 
And slowly faded, and in place of it 



jftom ttje Jnuian ^la? 137 

V soft hand issued from the veil of fire, 
folding a cup like a magnolia flower, 
\nd poured upon the earth within the vase 
The element with which it overflowed, 
Brighter than morning light and purer than 
The water of the springs of Himalah. 

INDIAN 

You waked not ? 

LADY 

Not until my dream became 
Like a child's legend on the tideless sand, 
Which the first foam erases half, and half 
Leaves legible. At length I rose, and went, 
-Visiting my flowers from pot to pot, and 

thought 
To set new cuttings in the empty urns, 
And when I came to that beside the lattice, 
(I saw two little dark-green leaves 
►Lifting the light mould at their birth, and then 
^1 half-remembered my forgotten dream. 
*And day by day, green as a gourd in June, 
The plant grew fresh and thick, yet no one 

knew 
What plant it was ; its stem and tendrils seemed 

C Like emerald snakes, mottled and diamonded 

i 



138 Select poem* of Relies 

With azure mail and streaks of woven silver; 
And all the sheaths that folded the dark buds 
Rose like the crest of cobra-di-capel, 
Until the golden eye of the bright flower 
Through the dark lashes of those veined lids, 
Disencumbered of their silent sleep, 
Gazed like a star into the morning light. 
Its leaves were delicate, you almost saw 
The pulses 

With which the purple velvet flower was fed 
To overflow, and, like a poet's heart 
Changing bright fancy to sweet sentiment, 
Changed half the light to fragrance. It soon 

fell, 
And to a green and dewy embryo-fruit 
Left all its treasured beauty. Day by day 
I nursed the plant, and on the double flute 
Played to it on the sunny winter days 
Soft melodies, as sweet as April rain 
On silent leaves, and sang those words in which 
Passion makes Echo taunt the sleeping strings ; ' 
And I would send tales of forgotten love 
Late into the lone night, and sing wild songs 
Of maids deserted in the olden time, 
And weep like a soft cloud in April's bosom 
Upon the sleeping eyelids of the plant, 
So that perhaps it dreamed that Spring was 

come, 



ifrom t\)t 3lnDian pas 139 

\nd crept abroad into the moonlight air, 
,\nd loosened all its limbs, as, noon by noon, 
The sun averted less his oblique beam. 

INDIAN 

And the plant died not in the frost ? 

LADY 

It grew ; 

And went out of the lattice which I left 
Half open for it, trailing its quaint spires 
Along the garden and across the lawn, 
And down the slope of moss and through the 

tufts 
Of wild-flower roots, and stumps of trees o'er- 

grown 
♦With simple lichens, and old hoary stones, 
On to the margin of the glassy pool, 
Even to a nook of unblown violets 
And lilies-of-the-valley yet unborn, 
;Under a pine with ivy overgrown. 
And there its fruit lay like a sleeping lizard 
iUnder the shadows j but when Spring indeed 
*tame to unswathe her infants, and the lilies 
Peeped from their bright green masks to wonder 

at 
This shape of autumn couched in their recess, 
*Then it dilated, and it grew until 

y 



140 £>elm poem* of g>ljellep 

One half lay floating on the fountain wave, 
Whose pulse, elapsed in unlike sympathies, 
Kept time 

Among the snowy water-lily buds. 
Its shape was such as summer melody 
Of the south wind in spicy vales might give 
To some light cloud bound from the golden dawn 
To fairy isles of evening, and it seemed 
In hue and form that it had been a mirror 
Of all the hues and forms around it and 
Upon it pictured by the sunny beams 
Which, from the bright vibrations of the pool, 
Were thrown upon the rafters and the roof 
Of boughs and leaves, and on the pillared stems* 
Of the dark sylvan temple, and reflections 
Of every infant flower and star of moss 
And veined leaf in the azure odorous air. 
And thus it lay in the Elysian calm 
Of its own beauty, floating on the line 
"Which, like a film in purest space, divided 
The heaven beneath the water from the heaven 
Above the clouds ; and every day I went 
Watching its growth and wondering ; 
And as the day grew hot, methought I saw 
A glassy vapor dancing on the pool, 
And on it little quaint and filmy shapes, 
With dizzy motion, wheel and rise and fall, 
Like clouds of gnats with perfect lineaments. 



g>cene from <$rpt)m$ 141 



SCENE FROM ORPHEUS 

Alas! 
In times long past, when fair Eurydice 
With her bright eyes sat listening by his side, 
He gently sang of high and heavenly themes. 
As in a brook, fretted with little waves, 
By the light airs of spring, each riplet makes 
A many-sided mirror for the sun, 
While it flows musically through green banks, 
Ceaseless and pauseless, ever clear and fresh, 
So flowed his song, reflecting the deep joy 
And tender love that fed those sweetest notes, 
The heavenly offspring of ambrosial food. 
But that is past. Returning from drear Hell, 
He chose a lonely seat of unhewn stone, 
Blackened with lichens, on a herbless plain. 
Then from the deep and overflowing spring 
Of his eternal, ever-moving grief 
There rose to Heaven a sound of angry song. 
'T is as a mighty cataract that parts 
Two sister rocks with waters swift and strong, 
And casts itself with horrid roar and din 
Adown a steep ; from a perennial source 
It ever flows and falls, and breaks the air 
With loud and fierce, but most harmonious roar, 
And as it falls casts up a vaporous spray 



142 Select poems? of grtjellep 

Which the sun clothes in hues of Iris light. 

Thus the tempestuous torrent of his grief i 

Is clothed in sweetest sounds and varying words 

Of poesy. Unlike all human works 

It never slackens, and through every change 

Wisdom and beauty and the power divine 

Of mighty poesy together dwell, 

Mingling in sweet accord. As I have seen 

A fierce south blast tear through the darkened 

sky, 
Driving along a rack of winged clouds, 
Which may not pause, but ever hurry on, 
As their wild shepherd wills them, while the 

stars, 
Twinkling and dim, peep from between the 

plumes. 
Anon the sky is cleared, and the high dome 
Of serene Heaven, starred with fiery flowers, 
Shuts in the shaken earth ; or the still moon 
Swiftly, yet gracefully, begins her walk, 
Rising all bright behind the eastern hills. 
I talk of moon, and wind, and stars, and not 
Of song; but, would I echo his high song, 
Nature must lend me words ne'er used before, 
Or I must borrow from her perfect works, 
To picture forth his perfect attributes. 
He does no longer sit upon his throne 
Of rock upon a desert herbless plain, 



&tmt from ^rpijeutf 143 

For the evergreen and knotted ilexes, 
^And cypresses that seldom wave their boughs, 
And sea-green olives with their grateful fruit, 
And elms dragging along the twisted vines, 
Which drop their berries as they follow fast, 
And blackthorn bushes with their infant race 
Of blushing rose-blooms ; beeches, to lovers 
dear, 
1 And weeping willow trees ; all swift or slow, 
As their huge boughs or lighter dress permit, 
Have circled in his throne ; and Earth herself 
Has sent from her maternal breast a growth 
Of starlike flowers and herbs of odors sweet, 
To pave the temple that his poesy 
Has framed, while near his feet grim lions 

couch, 
And kids, fearless from love, creep near his lair. 
Even the blind worms seem to feel the sound. 
The birds are silent, hanging down their heads, 
Perched on the lowest branches of the trees ; 
Not even the nightingale intrudes a note 
In rivalry, but all entranced she listens. 



144 Select $&oem* of Relies 

BRIDAL SONG 



The golden gates of sleep unbar 

Where strength and beauty, met together, 
Kindle their image like a star 

In a sea of glassy weather ! 
Night, with all thy stars look down ; 

Darkness, weep thy holiest dew; 
Never smiled the inconstant moon 

On a pair so true. 
Let eyes not see their own delight ; — 
Haste, swift hour, and thy flight 
Oft renew. 

II 

Fairies, sprites, and angels, keep her ! 

Holy stars, permit no wrong! 
And return to wake the sleeper, 
Dawn, — ere it be long! 
O joy ! O fear ! what will be done 
In the absence of the sun ! 
Come along ! 



arch's £>ong 145 



ARCHY'S SONG 

Heigho ! the lark and the owl ! 

One flies the morning, and one lulls the night; 
Only the nightingale, poor fond soul, 

Sings like the fool through darkness and light. 

" A widow bird sate mourning for her love 
Upon a wintry bough ; 
The frozen wind crept on above, 
The freezing stream below. 

" There was no leaf upon the forest bare, 
No flower upon the ground, 
And little motion in the air 
Except the mill-wheel's sound." 



A FEW SONGS OF LIBERTY 



SONG 



TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND 

Men of England, wherefore plough 
For the lords who lay ye low ? 
Wherefore weave with toil and care 
The rich robes your tyrants wear ? 

Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save, 
From the cradle to the grave, 
Those ungrateful drones who would 
Drain your sweat — nay, drink your blood ? 

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge 
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge, 
That these stingless drones may spoil 
The forced produce of your toil ? 

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm, 
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm ? 
Or what is it ye buy so dear 
With your pain and with your fear ? 



<D&e to flibert^ 147 

The seed ye sow, another reaps ; 
The wealth ye find, another keeps ; 
The robes ye weave, another wears ; 
The arms ye forge, another bears. 

Sow seed, — but let no tyrant reap ; 
Find wealth, — let no impostor heap; 
Weave robes, — let not the idle wear; 
Forge arms, — in your defence to bear. 

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells ; 
In halls ye deck, another dwells. 
Why shake the chains ye wrought ? Ye see 
The steel ye tempered glance on ye. 

With plough and spade, and hoe and loom, 
Trace your grave, and build your tomb, 
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair 
England be your sepulchre. 



ODE TO LIBERTY 

Yet Freedom, yet, thy banner torn but flying 
Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind. 

Byron. 

A glorious people vibrated again 

The lightning of the Nations ; Liberty, 



148 Select ^oems of Relies 



From heart to heart, from tower to tower, o'er 



Spain, 



Scattering contagious fire into the sky, 
Gleamed. My soul spurned the chains of its Jj 
dismay, 
And in the rapid plumes of song 
Clothed itself, sublime and strong; 
As a young eagle soars the morning clouds among, 
Hovering in verse o'er its accustomed prey ; 
Till from its station in the Heaven of fame 
The Spirit's whirlwind rapt it, and the ray 
Of the remotest sphere of living flame 
Which paves the void was from behind it flung, 
As foam from a ship's swiftness, when there 

came 
A voice out of the deep: I will record the same. 

i 

The Sun and the serenest Moon sprang forth ; 

The burning stars of the abyss were hurled j 
Into the depths of heaven. The daedal earth, j 

That island in the ocean of the world, 
Hung in its cloud of all-sustaining air ; 

But this divinest universe A 

Was yet a chaos and a curse, 
For thou wert not ; but power from worst pro- I 
ducing worse, 
The spirit of the beasts was kindled there, 
And of the birds, and of the watery forms, 



®De to ILibertp 149 

And there was war among them, and despair 
Within them, raging without truce or 
terms. 
The bosom of their violated nurse 

Groaned, for beasts warred on beasts, and 

worms on worms, 
And men on men ; each heart was as a hell 
of storms. 

Man, the imperial shape, then multiplied 

His generations under the pavilion 
Of the Sun's throne ; palace and pyramid, 
Temple and prison, to many a swarming 
million 
Were as to mountain wolves their ragged caves. 
This human living multitude 
Was savage, cunning, blind, and rude, 
For thou wert not ; but o'er the populous soli- 
tude, 
[ Like one fierce cloud over a waste of waves, 
Hung Tyranny ; beneath, sate deified 
The sister-pest, congregator of slaves ; 
Into the shadow of her pinions wide 
Anarchs and priests who feed on gold and blood 
, Till with the stain their inmost souls are 
I dyed, 

Drove the astonished herds of men from every 
side. 



150 Select ^oem* of Relies 

The nodding promontories, and blue isles, 

And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous^ 
waves 
Of Greece, basked glorious in the open smiles j 
Of favoring heaven; from their enchanted^ 
caves 
Prophetic echoes flung dim melody. 
On the unapprehensive wild 
The vine, the corn, the olive mild, 
Grew savage yet, to human use unreconciled ; 
And, like unfolded flowers beneath the sea, 
Like the man's thought dark in the in- 
fant's brain, 
Like aught that is which wraps what is to be, 
Art's deathless dreams lay veiled by many 
a vein 
Of Parian stone ; and, yet a speechless child, 
Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strain 
Her lidless eyes for thee ; when o'er the 
iEgean main 

Athens arose ; a city such as vision 

Builds from the purple crags and silver towers 
Of battlemented cloud, as in derision 

Of kindliest masonry : the ocean floors 
Pave it ; the evening sky pavilions it ; 
Its portals are inhabited 
By thunder-zoned winds, each head 



<$ae to lUbmg 151 

Within its cloudy wings with sun-fire gar- 
landed, — 
A divine work ! Athens, diviner yet, 

Gleamed with its crest of columns, on the 
will 
Of man, as on a mount of diamond, set ; 
For thou wert, and thine all-creative skill 
Peopled, with forms that mock the eternal dead 
In marble immortality, that hill 
Which was thine earliest throne and latest 
oracle. 

Within the surface of Time's fleeting river 

Its wrinkled image lies, as then it lay 
Immovably unquiet, and forever 

It trembles, but it cannot pass away ! 
The voices of thy bards and sages thunder 
With an earth-awakening blast 
Through the caverns of the past ; 
Religion veils her eyes ; Oppression shrinks 
aghast. 
A winged sound of joy, and love, and won- 
der, 
Which soars where Expectation never 
flew, 
Rending the veil of space and time asunder ! 
One ocean feeds the clouds, and streams, 
and dew ; 



152 Select ponn* of gtydU]? 

One sun illumines heaven ; one spirit vast 
With life and love makes chaos ever new, 
As Athens doth the world with thy delight 
renew. 

Then Rome was, and from thy deep bosom 
fairest, 
Like a wolf-cub from a Cadmean Maenad, 
She drew the milk of greatness, though thy 
dearest 
From that Elysian food was yet unweaned ; 
And many a deed of terrible uprightness 
By thy sweet love was sanctified ; 
And in thy smile, and by thy side, 
Saintly Camillus lived, and firm Atilius died. 
But when tears stained thy robe of vestal 
whiteness, 
And gold profaned thy Capitolian throne, 
Thou didst desert, with spirit-winged light- 
ness, 
The senate of the tyrants : they sunk prone 
Slaves of one tyrant. Palatinus signed 
Faint echoes of Ionian song ; that tone 
Thou didst delay to hear, lamenting to dis- 



From what Hyrcanian glen or frozen hill, 
Or piny promontory of the Arctic main, 



:, 



®&e to ^Liberty 153 

Or utmost islet inacessible, 

Didst thou lament the ruin of thy reign, 
Teaching the woods and waves, and desert 
rocks, 
And every Naiad's ice-cold urn, 
To talk in echoes sad and stern, 
Of that sublimest lore which man had dared 
unlearn ? 
For neither didst thou watch the wizard flocks 
Of the Scald's dreams, nor haunt the Dru- 
id's sleep. 
What if the tears rained through thy shattered 
locks 
Were quickly dried ? for thou didst groan, 
not weep, 
When from its sea of death, to kill and burn, 
The Galilean serpent forth did creep, 
And made thy world an undistinguishable 
heap. 

A thousand years the Earth cried, c Where art 
thou ? ' 
And then the shadow of thy coming fell 
On Saxon Alfred's olive-cinctured brow ; 

And many a warrior-peopled citadel, 
Like rocks which fire lifts out of the flat deep, 
Arose in sacred Italy, 
Frowning o'er the tempestuous sea 



154 Select |aoem$ of gtyrtles 

Of kings, and priests, and slaves, in tower- 
crowned majesty ; d 
That multitudinous anarchy did sweep 

And burst around their walls, like idle foam, 
Whilst/rom the human spirit's deepest deep, j 
Strange melody with love and awe struck 
dumb 
Dissonant arms ; and Art, which cannot die, 
With divine wand traced on our earthly home 
Fit imagery to pave heaven's everlasting dome. 

Thou huntress swifter than the Moon ! thou 
terror 
Of the world's wolves ! thou bearer of the 
quiver, 
Whose sun-like shafts pierce tempest-winged 
Error, 
As light may pierce the clouds when they 
dissever 
In the calm regions of the orient day ! 

Luther caught thy wakening glance ; 
Like lightning, from his leaden lance 
Reflected, it dissolved the visions of the trance 
In which, as in a tomb, the nations lay; 
And England's prophets hailed thee as their 
queen, 
In songs whose music cannot pass away, 
Though it must flow forever; not unseen 



<®&e to ILibertp 155 

Before the spirit-sighted countenance 

Of Milton didst thou pass, from the sad 

scene 
Beyond whose night he saw, with a dejected 

mien. 

The eager hours and unreluctant years 

As on a dawn-illumined mountain stood, 
Trampling to silence their loud hopes and fears, 

Darkening each other with their multitude, 
And cried aloud, ' Liberty ! ' Indignation 
Answered Pity from her cave; 
Death grew pale within the grave, 
And Desolation howled to the destroyer, c Save ! ' 
When, like heaven's sun girt by the exhala- 
tion 
Of its own glorious light, thou didst arise, 
Chasing thy foes from nation unto nation 
Like shadows : as if day had cloven the 
skies 
At dreaming midnight o'er the western wave, 
Men started, staggering with a glad sur- 
prise, 
Under the lightnings of thine unfamiliar eyes. 

Thou heaven of earth ! what spells could pall 
thee then, 
In ominous eclipse ? a thousand years, 



156 Select JBoems of gtyellep 

Bred from the slime of deep Oppression's den, 
Dyed all thy liquid light with blood and tears, 
Till thy sweet stars could weep the stain away ; 
How like Bacchanals of blood 
Round France, the ghastly vintage, 
stood 
Destruction's sceptred slaves, and Folly's mi- 
tred brood ! 
When one, like them, but mightier far than 
they, 
The Anarch of thine own bewildered 
powers, 
Rose ; armies mingled in obscure array, 
Like clouds with clouds, darkening the 
sacred bowers 
Of serene heaven. He, by the past pursued, 
Rests with those dead but unforgotten hours, 
Whose ghosts scare victor kings in their an- 
cestral towers. 

England yet sleeps : was she not called of old ? 
Spain calls her now, as with its thrilling 
thunder 
Vesuvius wakens iEtna, and the cold 

Snow-crags by its reply are cloven in sunder ; 
O'er the lit waves every iEolian isle 
From Pithecusa to Pelorus 
Howls, and leaps, and glares in chorus ; 



<DDe to JLibertp 157 

They cry, ' Be dim, ye lamps of heaven sus- 
pended o'er us ! ' 
Her chains are threads of gold, she need but 
smile 
And they dissolve ; but Spain's were links 
of steel, 
Till bit to dust by virtue's keenest file. 
Twins of a single destiny I appeal 
To the eternal years enthroned before us 
In the dim West ; impress us from a seal, 
All ye have thought and done ! Time cannot 
dare conceal. 

Tomb of Arminius ! render up thy dead 

Till, like a standard from a watch-tower's 
staff, 
His soul may stream over the tyrant's head ; 

Thy victory shall be his epitaph, 
Wild Bacchanal of truth's mysterious wine, 
King-deluded Germany, 
His dead spirit lives in thee. 
Why do we fear or hope ? thou art already free ! 
And thou, lost Paradise of this divine 

And glorious world ! thou flowery wilder- 
ness ! 
Thou island of eternity ! thou shrine 

Where desolation clothed with loveliness 
Worships the thing thou wert ! O Italy, 



158 Select JBoem* of g^elle^ 

Gather thy blood into thy heart ; repress 
The beasts who make their dens thy sacred 
palaces. 

Oh, that the free would stamp the impious name 

Of King into the dust ! or write it there, 
So that this blot upon the page of fame 

Were as a serpent's path, which the light 
air 
Erases, and the flat sands close behind ! 
Ye the oracle have heard. 
Lift the victory-flashing sword, 
And cut the snaky knots of this foul gordian 
word, 
Which, weak itself as stubble, yet can bind 

Into a mass, irrefragably firm, 
The axes and the rods which awe mankind ; 
The sound has poison in it, 't is the sperm 
Of what makes life foul, cankerous, and ab- 
horred ; 
Disdain not thou, at thine appointed term, 
To set thine armed heel on this reluctant 
worm. 

Oh, that the wise from their bright minds would 
kindle 
Such lamps within the dome of this dim 
world. 



<D&e to ILibnt? 159 

That the pale name of Priest might shrink and 
dwindle 

Into the hell from which it first was hurled, 
A scoff of impious pride from fiends impure ; 

Till human thoughts might kneel alone, 
Each before the judgment-throne 
Of its own aweless soul, or of the Power un- 
known ! 
Oh, that the words which make the thoughts 
obscure 
From which they spring, as clouds of glim- 
mering dew 
From a white lake blot heaven's blue por- 
traiture, 
Were stripped of their thin masks and va- 
rious hue 
And frowns and smiles and splendors not their 
own, 
Till in the nakedness of false and true 
They stand before their Lord, each to receive 
its due. 

He who taught man to vanquish whatsoever 
Can be between the cradle and the grave 

Crowned him the King of Life. Oh, vain en- 
deavor ! 
If on his own high will, a willing slave, 



160 g>elect poems of Relies 

He has enthroned the oppression and the op- 
pressor. 
What if earth can clothe and feed 
Amplest millions at their need, 
And power in thought be as the tree within the 
seed ? 
Oh, what if Art, an ardent intercessor, 

Driving on fiery wings to Nature's throne, 

Checks the great mother stooping to caress her 

And cries : c Give me, thy child, dominion 

Over all height and depth ? ' if Life can breed 

New wants, and wealth from those who toil 

and groan 
Rend of thy gifts and hers a thousand-fold 
for one. 

Come thou, but lead out of the inmost cave 
Of man's deep spirit, as the morning-star 
Beckons the sun from the Eoan wave, 

Wisdom. I hear the pennons of her car 
Self-moving, like cloud charioted by flame ; 
Comes she not, and come ye not, 
Rulers of eternal thought, 
To judge with solemn truth life's ill-apportioned 
lot? 
Blind Love, and equal Justice, and the Fame 
Of what has been, the Hope of what will 
be? 



mt to lliberts 161 

O Liberty ! if such could be thy name 

Wert thou disjoined from these, or they 
I from thee — 

[f thine or theirs were treasures to be bought 
By blood or tears, have not the wise and free 
Wept tears, and blood like tears ? — The sol- 
emn harmony 

Paused, and the Spirit of that mighty singing 

To its abyss was suddenly withdrawn ; 
Then as a wild swan, when sublimely winging 
Its path athwart the thunder-smoke of dawn, 
Sinks headlong through the aerial golden light 
On the heavy sounding plain, 
When the bolt has pierced its brain ; 
As summer clouds dissolve unburdened of their 



rain 



As a far taper fades with fading night, 

As a brief insect dies with dying day, — 
My song, its pinions disarrayed of might, 
Drooped; o'er it closed the echoes far 
away 
Of the great voice which did its flight sustain, 
As waves which lately paved his watery way 
Hiss round a drowner's head in their tem- 
pestuous play. 



1 62 Select jaoemtf of gfytllty 

LINES 

WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE 
DEATH OF NAPOLEON 

What ! alive and so bold, O Earth ? 
Art thou not over-bold ? 
What ! leapest thou forth as of old 
In the light of thy morning mirth, 
The last of the flock of the starry fold ? 
Ha ! leapest thou forth as of old ? 
Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled, 
And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead ? 

How ! is not thy quick heart cold ? 
What spark is alive on thy hearth ? 
How ! is not his death-knell knolled ? 
And livest thou still, Mother Earth ? 
Thou wert warming thy fingers old 
O'er the embers covered and cold 
Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled ; 
What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead ? 

1 Who has known me of old,' replied Earth, 

1 Or who has my story told ? 

It is thou who art over-bold.' 
And the lightning of scorn laughed forth 
As she sung, ' To my bosom I fold 
All my sons when their knell is knolled, 



Ctjoruse* from fellas 163 

Mid so with living motion all are fed, 
knd the quick spring like weeds out of the 
dead. 

1 Still alive and still bold,' shouted Earth, 
1 1 grow bolder, and still more bold. 
The dead fill me ten thousand-fold 
Fuller of speed, and splendor, and mirth. 
I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold, 
Like a frozen chaos uprolled, 
Till by the spirit of the mighty dead 
My heart grew warm. I feed on whom 1 fed. 

* Ay, alive and still bold,' muttered Earth, 
< Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled, 
In terror, and blood, and gold, 
A torrent of ruin to death from his birth. 
Leave the millions who follow to mould 
The metal before it be cold ; 
And weave into his shame, which like the dead 
Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled. 

CHORUSES FROM HELLAS 

i 
Life may change, but it mayfly not ; 
Hope may vanish, but can die not ; 



1 64 Select poems? of gtyeliep 

Truth be veiled, but still it burneth ; 
Love repulsed, — but it returneth. 

Yet were life a charnel, where 
Hope lay coffined with Despair ; 
Yet were truth a sacred lie, 
Love were lust, if Liberty 

Lent not life its soul of light, 
Hope its iris of delight, 
Truth its prophet's robe to wear, 
Love its power to give and bear. 

In the great morning of the world, 
The spirit of God with might unfurled 
The flag of Freedom over Chaos, 

And all its banded anarchs fled, 
Like vultures frighted from Imaus 

Before an earthquake's tread. 
So from Time's tempestuous dawn 
Freedom's splendor burst and shone ; 
Thermopylae and Marathon 
Caught, like mountains beacon-lighted, 

The springing Fire ; the winged glory 
On Philippi half-alighted, 

Like an eagle on a promontory. 
Its unwearied wings could fan 
The quenchless ashes of Milan. 



Choruses from fellas 165 

From age to age, from man to man 
It lived ; and lit from land to land 
Florence, Albion, Switzerland. 

Then night fell ; and, as from night, 

Reassuming fiery flight, 

From the West swift Freedom came, 
Against the course of heaven and doom, 

A second sun arrayed in flame, 
To burn, to kindle, to illume. 

From far Atlantis its young beams 

Chased the shadows and the dreams. 

France, with all her sanguine steams, 

Hid, but quenched it not ; again 
Through clouds its shafts of glory rain 
From utmost Germany to Spain. 

As an eagle fed with morning 

Scorns the embattled tempest's warning, 

When she seeks her aerie hanging 

In the mountain-cedar's hair, 
And her brood expect the clanging 

Of her wings through the wild air, 
Sick with famine ; — Freedom so 
To what of Greece remaineth now 
Returns ; her hoary ruins glow 
Like orient mountains lost in day ; 

Beneath the safety of her wings 



1 66 Select poem* of grtjeltei? 

Her renovated nurslings play, 
And in the naked lightnings 

Of truth they purge their dazzled eyes. 

Let Freedom leave, where'er she flies, 

A desert, or a paradise ; 

Let the beautiful and the brave 
Share her glory, or a grave. 

With the gifts of gladness 
Greece did thy cradle strew ; 

With the tears of sadness 

Greece did thy shroud bedew ; 

With an orphan's affection 

She followed thy bier through time ; 

And at thy resurrection 

Reappeareth, like thou, sublime ! 

If Heaven should resume thee, 

To Heaven shall her spirit ascend; 

If Hell should entomb thee, 

To Hell shall her high hearts bend. 

If Annihilation — 

Dust let her glories be ; 
And a name and a nation 

Be forgotten, Freedom, with thee! 



Choruses from fellas 167 



Let there be light ! said Liberty ; 
And like sunrise from the sea 
Athens arose ! — Around her born, 
Shone like mountains in the morn 
Glorious states ; — and are they now 
Ashes, wrecks, oblivion ? Go 
Where Thermae and Asopus swallowed 

Persia, as the sand does foam ; 
Deluge upon deluge followed, 

Discord, Macedon, and Rome ; 
And, lastly, thou ! Temples and towers, 

Citadels and marts, and they 
Who live and die there, have been ours, 

And may be thine, and must decay ; 
But Greece and her foundations are 
Built below the tide of war, 
Based on the crystalline sea 
Of thought and its eternity ; 
Her citizens, imperial spirits, 

Rule the present from the past ; 
On all this world of men inherits 

Their seal is set. 

Ill 

Worlds on worlds are rolling ever 
From creation to decay, 



1 68 Select poem* of gtyeliep 

Like the bubbles on a river, 

Sparkling, bursting, borne away. 
But they are still immortal 
Who, through birth's orient portal 
And death's dark chasm hurrying to and fro, 
Clothe their unceasing flight 
In the brief dust and light 
Gathered around their chariots as they go ; 
New shapes they still may weave, 
New gods, new laws receive, 
Bright or dim are they, as the robes they 
last 
On Death's bare ribs had cast. 

A power from the unknown God, 

A Promethean conqueror, came ; 
Like a triumphal path he trod 
The thorns of death and shame. 
A mortal shape to him 
Was like the vapor dim 
Which the orient planet animates with light ; 
Hell, Sin and Slavery came, 
Like bloodhounds mild and tame, 
Nor preyed until their lord had taken flight ; 
The moon of Mahomet 
Arose, and it shall set ; 
While blazoned as on heaven's immortal noon 
The cross leads generations on. 



Chorus** from fellas 169 

Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep 

From one, whose dreams are Paradise, 
Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to weep, 

And day peers forth with her blank eyes ; 

So fleet, so faint, so fair, 

The Powers of earth and air 
Fled from the folding star of Bethlehem ; 

Apollo, Pan, and Love, 

And even Olympian Jove, 
Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared on 
them ; 

Our hills and seas and streams, 

Dispeopled of their dreams, 
Their waters turned to blood, their dew to tears, 

Wailed for the golden years. 

IV 

Darkness has dawned in the East 

On the noon of time ; 
The death birds descend to their feast, 

From the hungry clime. 
Let Freedom and Peace flee far 

To a sunnier strand, 
And follow Love's folding star 

To the Evening land ! 

The young moon has fed 
Her exhausted horn 



170 Select poem* of grtjellep 

With the sunset's fire ; 
The weak day is dead, 

But the night is not born ; 
And, like loveliness panting with wild desire, 
While it trembles with fear and delight, 
Hesperus flies from awakening night, 
And pants in its beauty and speed with light 
Fast-flashing, soft and bright. 
Thou beacon of love ! thou lamp of the free ! 

Guide us far, far away, 
To climes where now, veiled by the ardor of day, 
Thou art hidden 
From waves on which weary Noon 
Faints in her summer swoon, 
Between kingless continents, sinless as Eden, 
Around mountains and islands inviolably 
Pranked on the sapphire sea. 



The world's great age begins anew, 

The golden years return, 
The earth doth like a snake renew 

Her winter weeds outworn ; 
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam, 
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. 

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains 
From waves serener far; 



Choruses from fellas 171 

A new Peneus rolls his fountains 

Against the morning-star. 
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep 
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. 

A loftier Argo cleaves the main, 

Fraught with a later prize ; 
Another Orpheus sings again, 

And loves, and weeps, and dies. 
A new Ulysses leaves once more 
Calypso for his native shore. 

Oh, write no more the tale of Troy, 
If earth Death's scroll must be ! 

Nor mix with Laian rage the joy 
Which dawns upon the free; 

Although a subtler Sphinx renew 

Riddles of death Thebes never knew. 

Another Athens shall arise, 

And to remoter time 
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, 

The splendor of its prime; 
And leave, if nought so bright may live, 
All earth can take or Heaven can give. 

Saturn and Love their long repose 
Shall burst, more bright and good 



172 Select poems of £tyellep 

Than all who fell, than One who rose, 

Than many unsubdued ; 
Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers, 
But votive tears and symbol flowers. 

Oh, cease ! must hate and death return ? 

Cease ! must men kill and die ? 
Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn 

Of bitter prophecy. 
The world is weary of the past, 
Oh, might it die or rest at last ! 



AMERICA 

4 There is a People mighty in its youth, 
A land beyond the oceans of the West, 
Where, though with rudest rites, Freedom and 

Truth 
Are worshipped ; from a glorious Mother's 

breast, 
Who, since high Athens fell, among the 

rest 
Sate like the Queen of Nations, but in woe, 
By inbred monsters outraged and oppressed, 
Turns to her chainless child for succor now, 
It draws the milk of Power in Wisdom's fullest 
flow. 



America 173 

4 That land is like an Eagle, whose young gaze 
Feeds on the noontide beam, whose golden 

plume 
Floats moveless on the storm, and in the blaze 
Of sunrise gleams when earth is wrapped in 

gloom ; 
An epitaph of glory for the tomb 
Of murdered Europe may thy fame be made, 
Great People ! as the sands shalt thou become ; 
Thy growth is swift as morn when night must 

fade; 
The multitudinous Earth shall sleep beneath thy 

shade. 



SCENES FROM NATURE AND 
LIFE 



MONT BLANC 

LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI 
I 

The everlasting universe of things 

Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid 

waves, 
Now dark, now glittering, now reflecting gloom, 
Now lending splendor, where from secret 

springs 
The source of human thought its tribute brings 
Of waters, — with a sound but half its own, 
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume 
In the wild woods, among the mountains 

lone, 
Where waterfalls around it leap forever, 
Where woods and winds contend, and a vast 

river 
Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves. 



Spont HBlanc x 75 

ii 

hus thou, Ravine of Arve — dark, deep Ra- 
vine — 
hou many-colored, many-voiced vale, 
>ver whose pines, and crags, and caverns sail 
ast cloud-shadows, and sunbeams ! awful scene, 
Phere Power in likeness of the Arve comes 

down 
rom the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne, 
lursting through these dark mountains like the 

flame 
)f lightning through the tempest ! thou dost 

h e > .. . 

fhy giant brood of pines around thee clinging, 
Children of elder time, in whose devotion 
rhe chainless winds still come and ever came 
ro drink their odors, and their mighty swing- 
ing 
ro hear — an old and solemn harmony ; 
rhine earthly rainbows stretched across the 

sweep 
Df the ethereal waterfall, whose veil 
Robes some unsculptured image; the strange 

sleep 
Which when the voices of the desert fail 
Wraps all in its own deep eternity ; 
Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's commo- 
tion — 



176 Select poems of fytyllty 

A loud, lone sound no other sound can tame; 
Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion, ! 
Thou art the path of that unresting sound, 
Dizzy Ravine ! and when I gaze on thee, 
I seem as in a trance sublime and strange 
To muse on my own separate fantasy, 
My own, my human mind, which passively 
Now renders and receives fast influencings, 
Holding an unremitting interchange 
With the clear universe of things around ; 
One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering: 

wings 
Now float above thy darkness, and now rest, 
Where that or thou art no unbidden guest, 
In the still cave of the witch Poesy, 
Seeking among the shadows that pass by — 
Ghosts of all things that are — some shade of 

thee, 
Some phantom, some faint image ; till the breast 
From which they fled recalls them, thou art 

there ! 

Ill 

Some say that gleams of a remoter world 
Visit the soul in sleep, — that death is slumber, 
And that its shapes the busy thoughts out- 
number 
Of those who wake and live. I look on high ; 



$ont 115lanc 177 

las some unknown Omnipotence unfurled 
rhe veil of life and death ? or do I lie 
n dream, and does the mightier world of sleep 
Jpread far around and inaccessibly 
its circles ? for the very spirit fails, 
Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep 
rhat vanishes among the viewless gales ! 
?ar, far above, piercing the infinite sky, 
Vlont Blanc appears, — still, snowy and se- 
rene — 
[ts subject mountains their unearthly forms 
Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales be- 
tween 
Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps, 
Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread 
And wind among the accumulated steeps ; 
A desert peopled by the storms alone, 
Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone, 
And the wolf tracks her there. How hideously 
Its shapes are heaped around ! rude, bare and 

high, 
Ghastly, and scarred, and riven. — Is this the 

scene 
Where the old Earthquake-daemon taught her 

young 
Ruin ? Were these their toys ? or did a sea 
Of fire envelop once this silent snow ? 
None can reply — all seems eternal now. 



178 Select jaoem* of fytylltv 

The wilderness has a mysterious tongue 
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild, 
So solemn, so serene, that man may be 
But for such faith with Nature reconciled ; 
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal 
Large codes of fraud and woe ; not understood 
By all, but which the wise, and great, and good, 
Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel. 



IV 



The fields, the lakes, the forests and the streams, 
Ocean, and all the living things that dwell 
Within the daedal earth, lightning, and rain, 
Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane, 
The torpor of the year when feeble dreams 
Visit the hidden buds or dreamless sleep 
Holds every future leaf and flower, the bound 
With which from that detested trance they leap, 
The works and ways of man, their death and birth, 

And that of him and all that his may be, 

All things that move and breathe with toil and 

sound 
Are born and die, revolve, subside and swell j 
Power dwells apart in its tranquillity, 

Remote, serene, and inaccessible ; 

And this, the naked countenance of earth 
On which I gaze, even these primeval moun- 
tains, 



$ont HBlanc 179 

Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep, 
Like snakes that watch their prey, from their 

far fountains, 
Slow rolling on ; there many a precipice 
Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power 
Have piled — dome, pyramid and pinnacle, 
A city of death, distinct with many a tower 
And wall impregnable of beaming ice ; 
Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin 
Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky 
Rolls its perpetual stream ; vast pines are strew- 
ing 
Its destined path, or in the mangled soil 
Branchless and shattered stand ; the rocks, drawn 

down 
From yon remotest waste, have overthrown 
The limits of the dead and living world, 
Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling-place 
Of insects, beasts and birds, becomes its spoil, 
Their food and their retreat forever gone ; 
So much of life and joy is lost. The race 
Of man flies far in dread ; his work and dwelling 
Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream, 
And their place is not known. Below, vast 

caves 
Shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam, 
Which from those secret chasms in tumult 
welling 



180 Select ^oems of ^elle^ 

Meet in the Vale ; and one majestic River, 
The breath and blood of distant lands, forever 
Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves, 
Breathes its swift vapors to the circling air. 



Mont Blanc yet gleams on high : the power is 

there, 
The still and solemn power of many sights 
And many sounds, and much of life and death./ 
In the calm darkness of the moonless nights, \ 
In the lone glare of day, the snows descend 
Upon that Mountain ; none beholds them there, ' 
Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun, 
Or the star-beams dart through them ; winds 

contend 
Silently there, and heap the snow, with breath 
Rapid and strong, but silently ! Its home . 

The voiceless lightning in these solitudes 
Keeps innocently, and like vapor broods 
Over the snow. The secret strength of things, 
Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome 
Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee ! 
And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and 

sea, 
If to the human mind's imaginings 
Silence and solitude were vacancy ? 



Wmittx from Julian anD spa&Dalo 181 

VENICE: FROM JULIAN AND 
MADDALO 

rode one evening with Count Maddalo 
Jpon the bank of land which breaks the flow 
3f Adria towards Venice. A bare strand 
3f hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting sand, 
batted with thistles and amphibious weeds, 
uch as from earth's embrace the salt ooze 

breeds, 
s this ; an uninhabited sea-side, 
iVhich the lone fisher, when his nets are dried, 
\bandons ; and no other object breaks 
The waste but one dwarf tree and some few 

stakes 

Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes 
\ narrow space of level sand thereon, 
Vhere 't was our wont to ride while day went 

down. 
This ride was my delight. I love all waste 
\nd solitary places ; where we taste 
rhe pleasure of believing what we see 
s boundless, as we wish our souls to be ; 
"\nd such was this wide ocean, and this shore 
More barren than its billows ; and yet more 
,rhan all, with a remembered friend I love 
To ride as then I rode ; — for the winds drove 



1 82 Select poem* of gtydlei? 

The living spray along the sunny air 
Into our faces ; the blue heavens were bare, 
Stripped to their depths by the awakening north ; 
And from the waves sound like delight broke 

forth 
Harmonizing with solitude, and sent 
Into our hearts aerial merriment. 
So, as we rode, we talked; and the swift 

thought, 
Winging itself with laughter, lingered not, 
But flew from brain to brain, — such glee was 

ours, 
Charged with light memories of remembered 1 

hours, 
None slow enough for sadness; till we came 
Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame. 
This day had been cheerful but cold, and now 
The sun was sinking, and the wind also. 
Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may be 
Talk interrupted with such raillery 
As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn 
The thoughts it would extinguish. 'T was for- 
lorn, 
Yet pleasing ; such as once, so poets tell, 
The devils held within the dales of Hell, 
Concerning God, freewill and destiny ; 
Of all that earth has been, or yet may be, 
All that vain men imagine or believe, 



Wmitt: from Julian anD spa&tralo 183 

Or hope can paint, or suffering may achieve, 
We descanted ; and I (for ever still 
Is it not wise to make the best of ill ?) 
Argued against despondency, but pride 
Made my companion take the darker side. 
The sense that he was greater than his kind 
Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit blind 
By gazing on its own exceeding light. 
Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight, 
Over the horizon of the mountains. Oh, 
How beautiful is sunset, when the glow 
Of Heaven descends upon a land like thee, 
Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy ! 
Thy mountains, seas and vineyards and the 

towers 
Of cities they encircle ! — It was ours 
To stand on thee, beholding it ; and then, 
Just where we had dismounted, the Count's 

men 
Were waiting for us with the gondola. 
As those who pause on some delightful way 
Though bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stood 
Looking upon the evening, and the flood, 
Which lay between the city and the shore, 
Paved with the image of the sky. The hoar 
And aery Alps towards the north appeared, 
Through mist, an heaven-sustaining bulwark 

reared 



1 84 Select poem* of gtyellep 

Between the east and west ; and half the sky- 
Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonry, 
Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew 
Down the steep west into a wondrous hue 
Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent 
Where the swift sun yet paused in his descent 
Among the many-folded hills. They were 
Those famous Euganean hills, which bear, 
As seen from Lido through the harbor piles, 
The likeness of a clump of peaked isles ; 
And then, as if the earth and sea had been 
Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seen 
Those mountains towering as from waves of ; 

flame 
Around the vaporous sun, from which there 

came 
The inmost purple spirit of light, and made 
Their very peaks transparent. c Ere it fade,' 
Said my companion, 1 1 will show you soon 
A better station.' So, o'er the lagune 
We glided ; and from that funereal bark 
I leaned, and saw the city, and could mark 
How from their many isles, in evening's gleam, 
Its temples and its palaces did seem 
Like fabrics of enchantment piled to Heaven. 
I was about to speak, when — * We are even 
Now at the point I meant,' said Maddalo, 
And bade the gondolieri cease to row. 



Bntice: from Julian ant) spao&alo 185 

Look, Julian, on the west, and listen well 
If you hear not a deep and heavy bell.' 
I looked, and saw between us and the sun 
A building on an island, — such a one 
As age to age might add, for uses vile, 
A windowless, deformed and dreary pile ; 
And on the top an open tower, where hung 
A bell, which in the radiance swayed and 

swung ; 
We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue; 
The broad sun sunk behind it, and it tolled 
In strong and black relief. 'What we behold 
Shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower/ 
Said Maddalo ; ' and ever at this hour 
Those who may cross the water hear that bell, 
Which calls the maniacs each one from his cell 
To vespers.' — c As much skill as need to pray 
In thanks or hope for their dark lot have they 
To their stern Maker,' I replied. 'Oho! 
You talk as in years past,' said Maddalo. 
4 'T is strange men change not. You were ever 

still 
Among Christ's flock a perilous infidel, 
A wolf for the meek lambs — If you can't 

swim, 
Beware of Providence.' I looked on him, 
But the gay smile had faded in his eye, — 
' And such,' he cried, 4 is our mortality ; 



1 86 Select poem* of S^ellep 

And this must be the emblem and the sign 
Of what should be eternal and divine ! 
And, like that black and dreary bell, the soul, 
Hung in a heaven-illumined tower, must toll 
Our thoughts and our desires to meet below 
Round the rent heart and pray — as madmen 

do 
For what ? they know not, till the night of 

death, 
As sun r ~t that strange vision, severeth 
Our memory from itself, and us from all 
We sought, and yet were baffled.' I recall 
The sense of what he said, although I mar 
The force of his expressions. The broad star 
Of day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill, 
And the black bell became invisible, 
And the red tower looked gray, and all be- 
tween, 
The churches, ships and palaces were seen 
Huddled in gloom ; into the purple sea 
The orange hues of heaven sunk silently. 
We hardly spoke, and soon the gondola 
Conveyed me to my lodgings by the way. 



Written among ti)t (Euganean fyill* 187 

LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE 
EUGANEAN HILLS 

Many a green isle needs must be 

In the deep, wide sea of misery, 

Or the mariner, worn and wan, 

Never thus could voyage on 

Day and night, and night and day, 

Drifting on his dreary way, 

With the solid darkness black 

Closing round his vessel's track ; 

Whilst above, the sunless sky, 

Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 

And behind, the tempest fleet 

Hurries on with lightning feet, 

Riving sail, and cord, and plank, 

Till the ship has almost drank 

Death from the o'er-brimming deep, 

And sinks down, down — like that sleep 

When the dreamer seems to be 

Weltering through eternity ; 

And the dim low line before 

Of a dark and distant shore 

Still recedes, as ever still, 

Longing with divided will 

But no power to seek or shun, 

He is ever drifted on 



1 88 £>rlm l^orms of e>ljrllrv 

O'er the unreposing wave 

To the haven of the grave. 

What, if there no friends will greet ? 

What, if there no heart will meet 

His with love's impatient beat ? 

Wander whereso'er he may, 

Can he dream before that day 

To find refuge from distress 

In friendship's smile, in love's caress ? 

Then 'twill wreak him little woe 

Whether such there be or no. 

Senseless is the breast, and cold, 

Which relenting love would fold; 

Bloodless are the veins, and chill, 

Which the pulse of pain did fill ; 

Every little living nerve 

That from bitter words did swerve 

Round the tortured lips and brow, 

Are like sapless leaflets now 

Frozen upon December's bough. 

On the beach of a northern sea 

Which tempests shake eternally, 

As once the wretch there lay to sleep, 

Lies a solitary heap, 

One white skull and seven dry bones, 

On the margin of the stones, 

Where a few gray rushes stand, 



Written among tfje CEuganean fyilte 189 

Boundaries of the sea and land : 

Nor is heard one voice of wail 

But the sea-mews, as they sail 

O'er the billows of the gale ; 

Or the whirlwind up and down 

Howling, like a slaughtered town 

When a king in glory rides 

Through the pomp of fratricides.* 

Those unburied bones around 

There is many a mournful sound ; 

There is no lament for him, 

Like a sunless vapor, dim, 

Who once clothed with life and thought 

What now moves nor murmurs not. 

Ay, many flowering islands lie 
In the waters of wide Agony. 
To such a one this morn was led 
My bark, by soft winds piloted. 
Mid the mountains Euganean 
I stood listening to the paean 
With which the legioned rooks did hail 
The sun's uprise majestical ; 
Gathering round with wings all hoar, 
Through the dewy mist they soar 
Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 
Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, 
Flecked with fire and azure, lie 



190 Select poems of gtyellep 

In the unfathomable sky, 

So their plumes of purple grain, 

Starred with drops of golden rain, 

Gleam above the sunlight woods, 

As in silent multitudes 

On the morning's fitful gale 

Through the broken mist they sail, 

And the vapors cloven and gleaming 

Follow down the dark steep streaming, 

Till all is bright, and clear, and still, 

Round the solitary hill. 

Beneath is spread like a green sea 
The waveless plain of Lombardy, 
Bounded by the vaporous air, 
Islanded by cities fair. 
Underneath day's azure eyes, 
Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, 
A peopled labyrinth of walls, 
Amphitrite's destined halls, 
Which her hoary sire now paves 
With his blue and beaming waves. 
Lo ! the sun upsprings behind, 
Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined 
On the level quivering line 
Of the waters crystalline ; 
And before that chasm of light, 
As within a furnace bright, 



W&tittm among t\)t Cuganean frills 191 

Column, tower, and dome and spire, 
Shine like obelisks of fire, 
Pointing with inconstant motion 
From the altar of dark ocean 
To the sapphire-tinted skies ; 
As the flames of sacrifice 
From the marble shrines did rise 
As to pierce the dome of gold 
Where Apollo spoke of old. 

Sun-girt City ! thou hast been 
Ocean's child, and then his queen ; 
Now is come a darker day, 
And thou soon must be his prey, 
If the power that raised thee here 
Hallow so thy watery bier. 
A less drear ruin then than now, 
With thy conquest-branded brow 
Stooping to the slave of slaves 
From thy throne among the waves, 
Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew 
Flies, as once before it flew, 
O'er thine isles depopulate, 
And all is in its ancient state, 
Save where many a palace-gate 
With green sea-flowers overgrown 
Like a rock of ocean's own, 
Topples o'er the abandoned sea 



192 Select poems of ^elle^ 

As the tides change sullenly. 
The fisher on his watery way, 
Wandering at the close of day, 
Will spread his sail and seize his oar 
Till he pass the gloomy shore, 
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep, 
Bursting o'er the starlight deep, 
Lead a rapid masque of death 
O'er the waters of his path. 

Those who alone thy towers behold 
Quivering through aerial gold, 
As I now behold them here, 
Would imagine not they were 
Sepulchres, where human forms, 
Like pollution-nourished worms, 
To the corpse of greatness cling, 
Murdered, and now mouldering. 
But if Freedom should awake 
In her omnipotence, and shake 
From the Celtic Anarch's hold 
All the keys of dungeons cold, 
Where a hundred cities lie 
Chained like thee, ingloriously, 
Thou and all thy sister band 
Might adorn this sunny land, 
Twining memories of old time 
With new virtues more sublime. 



Mtitttn among tlje (Euganean fl?ill$ 193 

If not, perish thou and they ! — 
Clouds which stain truth's rising day 
By her sun consumed away — 
Earth can spare ye ; while like flowers, 
Tn the waste of years and hours, 
Vom your dust new nations spring 
With more kindly blossoming. 

Perish ! let there only be 

Floating o'er thy hearthless sea, 

As the garment of thy sky 

Clothes the world immortally, 

One remembrance, more sublime 

Than the tattered pall of time, 

Which scarce hides thy visage wan ; — 

That a tempest-cleaving Swan 

Of the songs of Albion, 

Driven from his ancestral streams 

By the might of evil dreams, 

Found a nest in thee ; and Ocean 

Welcomed him with such emotion 

That its joy grew his, and sprung 

From his lips like music flung 

O'er a mighty thunder-fit, 

Chastening terror. What though yet 

Poesy's unfailing River, 

Which through Albion winds forever 

Lashing with melodious wave 



194 Select ^owta of $>\)t\\ty 

Many a sacred poet's grave, 
Mourn its latest nursling fled ? 
What though thou with all thy dead 
Scarce can for this fame repay 
Aught thine own ? oh, rather say 
Though thy sins and slaveries foul 
Overcloud a sun-like soul ? 
As the ghost of Homer clings 
Round Scamander's wasting springs ; 
As divinest Shakespeare's might 
Fills Avon and the world with light 
Like omniscient power which he 
Imaged 'mid mortality ; 
As the love from Petrarch's urn 
Yet amid yon hills doth burn, 
A quenchless lamp, by which the heart 
Sees things unearthly; — so thou art, 
Mighty spirit ! so shall be 
The City that did refuge thee I 

Lo, the sun floats up the sky, 
Like thought-winged Liberty, 
Till the universal light 
Seems to level plain and height. 
From the sea a mist has spread, 
And the beams of morn lie dead 
On the towers of Venice now, 
Like its glory long ago. 



Wtittm among t\)t (Euganean ^ilte 195 

By the skirts of that gray cloud 
Many-domed Padua proud 
Stands, a peopled solitude, 
Mid the harvest-shining plain, 
Where the peasant heaps his grain 
In the garner of his foe, 
And the milk-white oxen slow 
With the purple vintage strain, 
Heaped upon the creaking wain, 
That the brutal Celt may swill 
Drunken sleep with savage will ; 
And the sickle to the sword 
Lies unchanged, though many a lord, 
Like a weed whose shade is poison, 
Overgrows this region's foison, 
Sheaves of whom are ripe to come 
To destruction's harvest-home. 
Men must reap the things they sow, 
Force from force must ever flow, 
Or worse ; but 'tis a bitter woe 
That love or reason cannot change 
The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. 

Padua, thou within whose walls 
Those mute guests at festivals, 
Son and Mother, Death and Sin, 
Played at dice for Ezzelin, 
Till Death cried, l I win, I win ! ' 



19& detect $otm$ of grtieUep 

And Sin cursed to lose the wager, 

But Death promised, to assuage her, 

That he would petition for 

Her to be made Vice-Emperor, 

When the destined years were o'er, 

Over all between the Po 

And the eastern Alpine snow, 

Under the mighty Austrian. 

Sin smiled so as Sin only can, 

And since that time, ay, long before, 

Both have ruled from shore to shore — 

That incestuous pair, who follow 

Tyrants as the sun the swallow, 

As Repentance follows Crime, 

And as changes follow Time. 

In thine halls the lamp of learning, 
Padua, now no more is burning ; 
Like a meteor whose wild way 
Is lost over the grave of day, 
It gleams betrayed and to betray. 
Once remotest nations came 
To adore that sacred flame, 
When it lit not many a hearth 
On this cold and gloomy earth ; 
Now new fires from antique light 
Spring beneath the wide world's might ; 
But their spark lies dead in thee, 



bitten among t\)t flEugancan t^ill0 197 

Trampled out by tyranny. 
As the Norway woodman quells, 
In the depth of piny dells, 
One light flame among the brakes, 
While the boundless forest shakes, 
And its mighty trunks are torn 
By the fire thus lowly born ; — 
The spark beneath his feet is dead, 
He starts to see the flames it fed 
Howling through the darkened sky 
With myriad tongues victoriously, 
And sinks down in fear ; — so thou, 
O Tyranny ! beholdest now 
Light around thee, and thou hearest 
The loud flames ascend, and fearest. 
Grovel on the earth ! ay, hide 
In the dust thy purple pride ! 

Noon descends around me now. 
'T is the noon of autumn's glow, 
When a soft and purple mist, 
Like a vaporous amethyst, 
Or an air-dissolved star 
Mingling light and fragrance, far 
From the curved horizon's bound 
To the point of heaven's profound 
Fills the overflowing sky. 
And the plains that silent lie 



198 Select |0oem0 of Relies 

Underneath; the leaves unsodden 
Where the infant frost has trodden 
With his morning-winged feet 
Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; 
And the red and golden vines, 
Piercing with their trellised lines 
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; 
The dun and bladed grass no less, 
Pointing from this hoary tower 
In the windless air ; the flower 
Glimmering at my feet ; the line 
Of the olive-sandalled Apennine 
In the south dimly islanded ; 
And the Alps, whose snows are spread 
High between the clouds and sun ; 
And of living things each one ; 
And my spirit, which so long 
Darkened this swift stream of song, — 
Interpenetrated lie 
By the glory of the sky : 
Be it love, light, harmony, 
Odor, or the soul of all 
Which from heaven like dew doth fall, 
Or the mind which feeds this verse 
Peopling the lone universe. 

Noon descends, and after noon 
Autumn's evening meets me soon, 



[rittett among tjje Cuganean l?ills 199 

Leading the infantine moon 

And that one star, which to her 

Almost seems to minister 

Half the crimson light she brings 

From the sunset's radiant springs ; 

And the soft dreams of the morn 

(Which like winged winds had borne 

To that silent isle, which lies 

Mid remembered agonies, 

The frail bark of this lone being) 

Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, 

And its ancient pilot, Pain, 

Sits beside the helm again. 

Other flowering isles must be 

In the sea of life and agony ; 

Other spirits float and flee 

O'er that gulf: even now, perhaps, 

On some rock the wild wave wraps, 

With folding wings they waiting sit 

For my bark, to pilot it 

To some calm and blooming cove, 

Where for me, and those I love, 

May a windless bower be built, 

Far from passion, pain, and guilt, 

In a dell mid lawny hills, 

Which the wild sea-murmur fills, 

And soft sunshine, and the sound 



200 Select JBoem* of gtyellep 

Of old forests echoing round, 

And the light and smell divine 

Of all flowers that breathe and shine. 

We may live so happy there, 

That the spirits of the air, 

Envying us, may even entice 

To our healing paradise 

The polluting multitude ; 

But their rage would be subdued 

By that clime divine and calm, 

And the winds whose wings rain balm 

On the uplifted soul, and leaves 

Under which the bright sea heaves ; 

While each breathless interval 

In their whisperings musical 

The inspired soul supplies 

With its own deep melodies, 

And the love which heals all strife, 

Circling, like the breath of life, 

All things in that sweet abode 

With its own mild brotherhood. 

They, not it, would change ; and soon 

Every sprite beneath the moon 

Would repent its envy vain, 

And the earth grow young again. 



sparengfti 



MARENGHI 



201 



Vmid the mountains, like a hunted beast, 
He hid himself, and hunger, toil, and cold, 

Month after month endured j it was a feast 
Whene'er he found those globes of deep-red 
gold 

Which in the woods the strawberry-tree doth 

bear, 
Suspended in their emerald atmosphere. 

And in the roofless huts of vast morasses, 
Deserted by the fever-stricken serf, 

All overgrown with reeds and long rank grasses, 
And hillocks heaped of moss-inwoven turf, 

And where the huge and speckled aloe made, 

Rooted in stones, a broad and pointed shade, 

He housed himself. There is a point of strand 
Near Vado's tower and town ; and on one 
side 

The treacherous marsh divides it from the land, 
Shadowed by pine and ilex forests wide, 

And on the other creeps eternally, 

Through muddy weeds, the shallow sullen sea. 



202 g>rtm poem* of gtyrfUp 



1 



GINEVRA 

Wild, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as 
one 
Who staggers forth into the air and sun 
From the dark chamber of a mortal fever, 
Bewildered, and incapable, and ever 
Fancying strange comments in her dizzy brain 
Of usual shapes, till the familiar train 
Of objects and of persons passed like things 
Strange as a dreamer's mad imaginings, 
Ginevra from the nuptial altar went ; 
The vows to which her lips had sworn assent 
Rung in her brain still with a jarring din, 
Deafening the lost intelligence within. 

And so she moved under the bridal veil, 
Which made the paleness of her cheek more 

pale, 
And deepened the faint crimson of her mouth, 
And darkened her dark locks, as moonlight 

doth, — 
And of the gold and jewels glittering there 
She scarce felt conscious, but the weary glare 
Lay like a chaos of unwelcome light, 
Vexing the sense with gorgeous undelight. 
A moonbeam in the shadow of a cloud 



Was less heavenly fair — her face was bowed, 
And as she passed, the diamonds in her hair 
Were mirrored in the polished marble stair 
Which led from the cathedral to the street; 
And ever as she went her light fair feet 
Erased these images. 



'WHEN SOFT WINDS' 

When soft winds and sunny skies 

With the green earth harmonize, 

And the young and dewy dawn, 

Bold as an unhunted fawn, 

Up the windless heaven is gone, — 

Laugh — for, ambushed in the day, 

Clouds and whirlwinds watch their prey. 



RAIN 

The fitful alternations of the rain, 
When the chill wind, languid as with pain 
Of its own heavy moisture, here and there 
Drives through the gray and beamless atmo- 
sphere. 



204 Select poem* of ^tjellep 



THE WANING MOON 

And like a dying lady, lean and pale, 
Who totters forth, wrapped in a gauzy veil, 
Out of her chamber, led by the insane 
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain, 
The moon arose up in the murky East, 
A white and shapeless mass. 

EVENING 



The sun is set ; the swallows are asleep ; 

The bats are flitting fast in the gray air; 
The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep, 

And evening's breath, wandering here and 
there 
Over the quivering surface of the stream, 
Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream. 

II 

There is no dew on the dry grass to-night, 
Nor damp within the shadow of the trees ; 

The wind is intermitting, dry, and light ; 
And in the inconstant motion of the breeze 



W$t foumion 205 

The dust and straws are driven up and down, 
And whirled about the pavement of the town. 

ill 

Within the surface of the fleeting river 
The wrinkled image of the city lay, 

Immovably unquiet, and forever 

It trembles, but it never fades away ; 

Go to the 

You, being changed, will find it then as now. 

IV 

The chasm in which the sun has sunk is shut 
By darkest barriers of enormous cloud, 

Like mountain over mountain huddled — but 
Growing and moving upwards in a crowd, 

And over it a space of watery blue, 

Which the keen evening star is shining through. 



THE QUESTION 

1 
I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way, 

Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring, 
And gentle odors led my steps astray, 

Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring 



206 Select y&otxti* of £>t)ellei? 

Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, 
But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in 
dream. 



There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, 

Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, 
The constellated flower that never sets ; 

Faint oxlips ; tender bluebells, at whose birth 
The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower 
that wets — 
(Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth) 
Its mother's face with Heaven's collected tears, 
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it 
hears. 

Ill 

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, 
Green cowbind and the moonlight-colored 
May, 
And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose 
wine 
Was the bright dew yet drained not by the 
day, 
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, 

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering 
astray ; 



tTOtje Question 207 

I And flowers azure, black, and streaked with 
gold, 
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. 



IV 

And nearer to the river's trembling edge 

There grew broad flag-flowers, purple pranked 
with white ; 

And starry river buds among the sedge ; 
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, 

Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 
With moonlight beams of their own watery 
light ; 

And bulrushes and reeds, of such deep green 

As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 



Methought that of these visionary flowers 
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 

That the same hues, which in their natural 
bowers 
Were mingled or opposed, the like array 

Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours 
Within my hand, — and then, elate and gay, 

I hastened to the spot whence I had come, 

That I might there present it ! — Oh, to 
whom ? 



2o8 Select |Doent0 of grtjellep 



THE BOAT ON THE SERCHIO 

Our boat is asleep on Serchio's stream, 
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream, 
The helm sways idly, hither and thither ; 

Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast, 
And the oars, and the sails ; but 't is sleeping 
fast 
Like a beast, unconscious of its tether. 

The stars burned out in the pale blue air, 
And the thin white moon lay withering there ; 
To tower, and cavern, and rift, and tree, 
The owl and the bat fled drowsily. 
Day had kindled the dewy woods, 

And the rocks above and the stream below, 
And the vapors in their multitudes, 

And the Apennine's shroud of summer snow, 
And clothed with light of aery gold 
The mists in their eastern caves uprolled. 

Day had awakened all things that be, — 
The lark and the thrush and the swallow free, 

And the milkmaid's song and mower's scythe, 
And the matin-bell and the mountain bee. 
Fire-flies were quenched on the dewy corn ; 

Glow-worms went out on the river's brim, 



We>t HBoat on tfce &m\)io 209 

Like lamps which a student forgets to trim ; 
The beetle forgot to wind his horn ; 

The crickets were still in the meadow and 
hill; 
Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun, 
Night's dreams and terrors, every one, 
Fled from the brains which are their prey 
, From the lamp's death to the morning ray. 

All rose to do the task He set to each, 

Who shaped us to His ends and not our 
own; 
The million rose to learn, and one to teach 
What none yet ever knew or can be known. 

And many rose 
Whose woe was such that fear became de- 
sire ; 
Melchior and Lionel were not among those ; 
They from the throng of men had stepped aside, 
And made their home under the green hill- 
side. 
j It was that hill, whose intervening brow 

Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye, 
Which the circumfluous plain waving below, 
t Like a wide lake of green fertility, • 
With streams and fields and marshes bare, 

Divides from the far Apennines, which lie 
Islanded in the immeasurable air. 



210 Select $oem$ of g^ellep 

4 What think you, as she lies in her green 

cove, 
Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of ? ' 
'If morning dreams are true, why I should 

guess 
That she was dreaming of our idleness, 
And of the miles of watery way 
We should have led her by this time of day.' 

4 Never mind, said Lionel, 
* Give care to the winds, they can bear it well 
About yon poplar tops ; and see ! 
The white clouds are driving merrily, 
And the stars we miss this morn will light 
More willingly our return to-night. 
How it whistles, Dominic's long black hair ! 
List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair j 

Hear how it sings into the air." 
— Of us and of our lazy motions/ 

Impatiently said Melchior, 
4 If I can guess a boat's emotions ; 

And how we ought, two hours before, 
To have been the devil knows where.' 
And then, in such transalpine Tuscan 
As would have killed a Della-Cruscan, 

So, Lionel according to his art 

Weaving his idle words, Melchior said : 



T&ty H5oat on t\)t g>ercl)io 211 

4 She dreams that we are not yet out of bed ; 
We '11 put a soul into her, and a heart 
Which like a dove chased by a dove shall beat.* 



4 Ay, heave the ballast overboard, 
And stow the eatables in the aft locker.' 
4 Would not this keg be best a little lowered ? ' 
4 No, now all 's right.' c Those bottles of warm 

tea — 
(Give me some straw) — must be stowed tenderly; 
Such as we used, in summer after six, 
To cram in great-coat pockets, and to mix 
Hard eggs and radishes and rolls at Eton, 
And, couched on stolen hay in those green harbors 
Farmers called gaps, and we schoolboys called 

arbors, 
Would feast till eight.' 



With a bottle in one hand, 
As if his very soul were at a stand, 
Lionel stood, when Melchior brought him 

steady, — 
4 Sit at the helm — fasten this sheet — all ready ! ' 

The chain is loosed, the sails are spread, 
The living breath is fresh behind, 



212 Select poem* of gtyelleE 

As with dews and sunrise fed 

Comes the laughing morning wind. 
The sails are full, the boat makes head 
Against the Serchio's torrent fierce, 
Then flags with intermitting course, 

And hangs upon the wave, and stems 

The tempest of the . . . 
Which fervid from its mountain source 
Shallow, smooth, and strong, doth come, — 
Swift as fire, tempestuously 
It sweeps into the afFrighted sea ; 

In morning's smile its eddies coil, 

Its billows sparkle, toss, and boil, 

Torturing all its quiet light 

Into columns fierce and bright. 

The Serchio, twisting forth! 
Between the marble barriers which it clove 

At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm 
The wave that died the death which lovers 
love, 
Living in what it sought ; as if this spasm 
Had not yet passed, the toppling mountains 
cling, 
But the clear stream in full enthusiasm 
Pours itself on the plain, then wandering, 
Down one clear path of effluence crystal- 
line 



We>t 115oat on ttje gwctjio 213 

Sends its superfluous waves, that they may fling 
At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine ; 

Then, through the pestilential deserts wild 
Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted pine, 

It rushes to the Ocean. 



POEMS OF IDEAL PURSUIT 



FROM PRINCE ATHANASE 

Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all 
We can desire, O Love ! and happy souls, 
Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall, 

Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing 

bowls 
Thousands who thirst for thine ambrosial dew ! 
Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls 

Investeth it ; and when the heavens are blue 
Thou fillest them ; and when the earth is fair 
The shadow of thy moving wings imbue 

Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear 
Beauty like some light robe; thou ever soarest 
Among the towers of men, and as soft air 

In spring, which moves the unawakened forest, 
Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak, 
Thou floatest among men, and aye implorest 



aiastor 215 

That which from thee they should implore ; the 

weak 
Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts 
The strong have broken ; yet where shall any 

seek 

A garment whom thou clothest not ? 



ALASTOR 

OR 

THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE 

Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, 
quaerebam quid amarem, amans amare. 

Confess. St. August. 

Earth, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood ! 
If our great Mother has imbued my soul 
With aught of natural piety to feel 
Your love, and recompense the boon with mine; 
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even, 
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers, 
And solemn midnight's tingling silentness ; 
If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood, 
And Winter robing with pure snow and crowns 
Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs; 



216 Select |&oent0 of £>tjeilei? 

If Spring's voluptuous pantings when she 

breathes 
Her first sweet kisses, — have been dear to me; 
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast 
I consciously have injured, but still loved 
And cherished these my kindred ; then forgive 
This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw 
No portion of your wonted favor now ! 

Mother of this unfathomable world ! 
Favor my solemn song, for I have loved 
Thee ever, and thee only ; I have watched 
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps, 
And my heart ever gazes on the depth 
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed 
In charnels and on coffins, where black death 
Keeps record of the trophies won from thee, 
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings 
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost, 
Thy messenger, to render up the tale 
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours, 
When night makes a weird sound of its own 

stillness, 
Like an inspired and desperate alchemist 
Staking his very life on some dark hope, 
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks 
With my most innocent love, until strange tears, 
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made 



aiaator 217 

Such magic as compels the charmed night 

To render up thy charge ; and, though ne'er yet 

Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary, 

Enough from incommunicable dream, 

And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday 

thought, 
Has shone within me, that serenely now 
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre 
Suspended in the solitary dome 
Of some mysterious and deserted fane, 
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain 
May modulate with murmurs of the air, 
And motions of the forests and the sea, 
And voice of living beings, and woven hymns 
Of night and day, and the deep heart of man. 

There was a Poet whose untimely tomb 
No human hands with pious reverence reared, 
But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds 
Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid 
Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness : 
A lovely youth, — no mourning maiden decked 
With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath, 
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep : 
Gentle, and brave, and generous, — no lorn bard 
Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh : 
He lived, he died, he sung in solitude. 
Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes, 



218 Select JBoems of £>l)elle£ 

And virgins, as unknown he passed, have pinec 
And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes. 
The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn, 
And Silence, too enamoured of that voice, 
Locks its mute music in her rugged cell. 

By solemn vision and bright silver dream 
His infancy was nurtured. Every sight 
And sound from the vast earth and ambient ain 
Sent to his heart its choicest impulses. 
The fountains of divine philosophy 
Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of great, 
Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past 
In truth or fable consecrates, he felt 
And knew. When early youth had passed, hn 

left 
His cold fireside and alienated home 
To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands. 
Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness 
Has lured his fearless steps ; and he has boughti 
With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men 
His rest and food. Nature's most secret steps 
He like her shadow has pursued, where'er 
The red volcano overcanopies 
Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice 
With burning smoke, or where bitumen lakes 
On black bare pointed islets ever beat 
With sluggish surge, or where the secret caves 



aiastor 219 

Rugged and dark, winding among the springs 

Of fire and poison, inaccessible 

To avarice or pride, their starry domes 

Of diamond and of gold expand above 

Numberless and immeasurable halls, 

Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines 

Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysolite. 

Nor had that scene of ampler majesty 

Than gems or gold, the varying roof of heaven 

And the green earth, lost in his heart its claims 

To love and wonder ; he would linger long 

In lonesome vales, making the wild his home, 

Until the doves and squirrels would partake 

From his innocuous hand his bloodless food, 

Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks, 

And the wild antelope, that starts whene'er 

The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend 

Her timid steps, to gaze upon a form 

More graceful than her own. 

His wandering step, 
Obedient to high thoughts, has visited 
The awful ruins of the days of old : 
Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the waste 
Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers 
Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids, 
Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of strange, 
Sculptured on alabaster obelisk 



220 Select poem* of Shelley 

Or jasper tomb or mutilated sphinx, 

Dark ^Ethiopia in her desert hills 

Conceals. Among the ruined temples there, 

Stupendous columns, and wild images 

Of more than man, where marble daemons 

watch 
The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men 
Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls 

around, 
He lingered, poring on memorials 
Of the world's youth : through the long burn- 
ing day 
Gazed on those speechless shapes ; nor, when 

the moon 
Filled the mysterious halls with floating shades 
Suspended he that task, but ever gazed 
And gazed, till meaning on his vacant mind 
Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw 
The thrilling secrets of the birth of time. 

Meanwhile an Arab maiden brought his food, 
Her daily portion, from her father's tent, 
And spread her matting for his couch, and stole 
From duties and repose to tend his steps, 
Enamoured, yet not daring for deep awe 
To speak her love, and watched his nightly 

sleep, 
Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips 



aiasftor 221 

Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath 
Of innocent dreams arose ; then, when red 

morn 

Made paler the pale moon, to her cold home 
Wildered, and wan, and panting, she returned. 

The Poet, wandering on, through Arabie, 
And Persia, and the wild Carmanian waste, 
And o'er the aerial mountains which pour 

down 

Indus and Oxus from their icy caves, 
In joy and exultation held his way ; 
Till in the vale of Cashmire, far within 
Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants entwine 
Beneath the hollow rocks a natural bower, 
Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched 
His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep 
There came, a dream of hopes that never yet 
Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a veiled 

maid 
Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones. 
Her voice was like the voice of his own soul 
Heard in the calm of thought ; its music long, 
Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, 

held 
His inmost sense suspended in its web 
Of many-colored woof and shifting hues. 
Knowledge and truth and virtue were her theme, 



222 Select poems of £>i)ellep 

And lofty hopes of divine liberty, 

Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy, 

Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood 

Of her pure mind kindled through all her 

frame 
A permeating fire ; wild numbers then 
She raised, with voice stifled in tremulous sobs 
Subdued by its own pathos ; her fair hands 
Were bare alone, sweeping from some strange 

harp 
Strange symphony, and in their branching veins 
The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale. 
The beating of her heart was heard to fill 
The pauses of her music, and her breath 
Tumultuously accorded with those fits 
Of intermitted song. Sudden she rose, 
As if her heart impatiently endured 
Its bursting burden ; at the sound he turned, 
And saw by the warm light of their own life 
Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous veil 
Of woven wind, her outspread arms now bare, 
Her dark locks floating in the breath of night, 
Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips 
Outstretched, and pale, and quivering eagerly. 
His strong heart sunk and sickened with excess 
Of love. He reared his shuddering limbs, and 

quelled 
His gasping breath, and spread his arms to meet 



3la$tor 223 

Her panting bosom : — she drew back awhile, 
Then, yielding to the irresistible joy, 
With frantic gesture and short breathless cry 
Folded his frame in her dissolving arms. 
Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and night 
Involved and swallowed up the vision ; sleep, 
Like a dark flood suspended in its course, 
Rolled back its impulse on his vacant brain. 

Roused by the shock, he started from his 

trance — 
The cold white light of morning, the blue 

moon 
Low in the west, the clear and garish hills, 
The distinct valley and the vacant woods, 
Spread round him where he stood. Whither have 

fled 
The hues of heaven that canopied his bower 
Of yesternight ? The sounds that soothed his 

sleep, 
The mystery and the majesty of Earth, 
The joy, the exultation ? His wan eyes 
Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly 
As ocean's moon looks on the moon in heaven. 
The spirit of sweet human love has sent 
A vision to the sleep of him who spurned 
Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues 
Beyond the realms of dream that fleeting shade ; 



224 Select |Boem$ of gtyelles 

He overleaps the bounds. Alas ! alas ! 

Were limbs and breath and being intertwined 

Thus treacherously ? Lost, lost, forever lost 

In the wide pathless desert of dim sleep, 

That beautiful shape ! Does the dark gate of 

death 
Conduct to thy mysterious paradise, 
O Sleep ? Does the bright arch of rainbow 

clouds 
And pendent mountains seen in the calm lake 
Lead only to a black and watery depth, 
While death's blue vault with loathliest vapors 

hung, 
Where every shade which the foul grave exhales 
Hides its dead eye from the detested day, 
Conducts, O Sleep, to thy delightful realms ? 
This doubt with sudden tide flowed on his 

heart ; 
The insatiate hope which it awakened stung 
His brain even like despair. 

While daylight held 
The sky, the Poet kept mute conference 
With his still soul. At night the passion came, 
Like the fierce fiend of a distempered dream, 
And shook him from his rest, and led him 

forth 
Into the darkness. As an eagle, grasped 



aiastor 225 

folds of the green serpent, feels her breast 
jrn with the poison, and precipitates 
hrough night and day, tempest, and calm, and 

cloud, 

rantic with dizzying anguish, her blind flight 
er the wide aery wilderness : thus driven 
the bright shadow of that lovely dream, 
eneath the cold glare of the desolate night, 
hrough tangled swamps and deep precipitous 

dells, 

artling with careless step the moon-light snake, 
e fled. Red morning dawned upon his flight, 
ledding the mockery of its vital hues 
pon his cheek of death. He wandered on 
'ill vast Aornos seen from Petra's steep 
[ung o'er the low horizon like a cloud ; 
'hrough Balk, and where the desolated tombs 
)f Parthian kings scatter to every wind 
"heir wasting dust, wildly he wandered on, 
)ay after day, a weary waste of hours, 
Searing within his life the brooding care 
"hat ever fed on its decaying flame, 
ind now his limbs were lean ; his scattered 

hair, 
ered by the autumn of strange suffering, 
ung dirges in the wind ; his listless hand 
lung like dead bone within its withered skin ; 
,ife, and the lustre that consumed it, shone, 



226 Select poems of ^ellep 

As in a furnace burning secretly, 

From his dark eyes alone. The cottagers, 

Who ministered with human charity 

His human wants, beheld with wondering awe 

Their fleeting visitant. The mountaineer, 

Encountering on some dizzy precipice 

That spectral form, deemed that the Spirit < 

Wind, 
With lightning eyes, and eager breath, and fee 
Disturbing not the drifted snow, had paused 
In its career ; the infant would conceal 
His troubled visage in his mother's robe 
In terror at the glare of those wild eyes, 
To remember their strange light in many 

dream 
Of after times ; but youthful maidens, taught 
By nature, would interpret half the woe 
That wasted him, would call him with fah 

names 
Brother and friend, would press his pallid han< 
At parting, and watch, dim through tears, th! 

path 
Of his departure from their father's door. 

At length upon the lone Chorasmian shore 
He paused, a wide and melancholy waste 
Of putrid marshes. A strong impulse urged 
His steps to the seashore. A swan was there, 



&la$tor 227 

leside a sluggish stream among the reeds. 

t rose as he approached, and, with strong wings 

caling the upward sky, bent its bright course 

ligh over the immeasurable main. 

lis eyes pursued its flight : — 'Thou hast a home, 

leautiful bird ! thou voyagest to thine home, 

Vhere thy sweet mate will twine her downy 

neck 
.Vith thine, and welcome thy return with eyes 
Iright in the lustre of their own fond joy. 
md what am I that I should linger here, 
Vith voice far sweeter than thy dying notes, 
pirit more vast than thine, frame more attuned 
"o beauty, wasting these surpassing powers 
1 the deaf air, to the blind earth, and heaven 
"hat echoes not my thoughts ? ' A gloomy 

smile 
)f desperate hope wrinkled his quivering lips, 
or sleep, he knew, kept most relentlessly 
s precious charge, and silent death exposed, 
aithiess perhaps as sleep, a shadowy lure, 
Vith doubtful smile mocking its own strange 

charms. 

Startled by his own thoughts, he looked 
around, 
"here was no fair fiend near him, not a sight 
)r sound of awe but in his own deep mind. 



228 Select poems: of Relies 

A little shallop floating near the shore 
Caught the impatient wandering of his gaze. 
It had been long abandoned, for its sides 
Gaped wide with many a rift, and its frail joint; I 
Swayed with the undulations of the tide. 
A restless impulse urged him to embark 
And meet lone Death on the drear ocean** 

waste ; 
For well he knew that mighty Shadow loves 
The slimy caverns of the populous deep. 

The day was fair and sunny ; sea and sky 
Drank its inspiring radiance, and the wind 
Swept strongly from the shore, blackening the* 

waves. 
Following his eager soul, the wanderer 
Leaped in the boat ; he spread his cloak aloft 
On the bare mast, and took his lonely seat, j 
And felt the boat speed o'er the tranquil sea 
Like a torn cloud before the hurricane. 

As one that in a silver vision floats 
Obedient to the sweep of odorous winds 
Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly 
Along the dark and ruffled waters fled 
The straining boat. A whirlwind swept it on, 
With fierce gusts and precipitating force, 
Through the white ridges of the chafed sea. 



aiastor 229 

lie waves arose. Higher and higher still 
"heir fierce necks writhed beneath the tempest's 

scourge 
,ike serpents struggling in a vulture's grasp, 
'aim and rejoicing in the fearful war 
)f wave ruining on wave, and blast on blast 
)escending, and black flood on whirlpool driven 
Vith dark obliterating course, he sate : 
ws if their genii were the ministers 
ippointed to conduct him to the light 
)f those beloved eyes, the Poet sate, 
[olding the steady helm. Evening came on; 
"he beams of sunset hung their rainbow hues 
ligh 'mid the shifting domes of sheeted spray 
"hat canopied his path o'er the waste deep ; 
"wilight, ascending slowly from the east, 
Entwined in duskier wreaths her braided locks 
)'er the fair front and radiant eyes of Day ; 
Tight followed, clad with stars. On every side 
4ore horribly the multitudinous streams 
)f ocean's mountainous waste to mutual war 
Lushed in dark tumult thundering, as to mock 
"he calm and spangled sky. The little boat 
till fled before the storm ; still fled, like foam 
)own the steep cataract of a wintry river ; 
Tow pausing on the edge of the riven wave; 
Tow leaving far behind the bursting mass 
That fell, convulsing ocean ; safely fled — 



230 Select $otm$ of fytyllty 

As if that frail and wasted human form 
Had been an elemental god. 

At midnight 
The moon arose ; and lo ! the ethereal cliffs 
Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone 
Among the stars like sunlight, and around 
Whose caverned base the whirlpools and thu 

waves 
Bursting and eddying irresistibly 

Rage and resound forever. — Who shall save ? ; 

The boat fled on, — the boiling torrent drove, 

The crags closed round with black and jaggeci 

arms, 
The shattered mountain overhung the sea, 
And faster still, beyond all human speed, 
Suspended on the sweep of the smooth wave, 
The little boat was driven. A cavern there 
Yawned, and amid its slant and winding depths^ 
Ingulfed the rushing sea. The boat fled on 
With unrelaxing speed. — ' Vision and Love ! 
The Poet cried aloud, « I have beheld 
The path of thy departure. Sleep and death 
Shall not divide us long.' 

The boat pursued 
The windings of the cavern. Daylight shone 
At length upon that gloomy river's flow ; 



aiastor 231 

^ow, where the fiercest war among the waves 

[s calm, on the unfathomable stream 

The boat moved slowly. Where the mountain, 

riven, 

Exposed those black depths to the azure sky, 
Ere yet the flood's enormous volume fell 
Even to the base of Caucasus, with sound 
That shook the everlasting rocks, the mass 
Filled with one whirlpool all that ample chasm; 
Stair above stair the eddying waters rose, 
Circling immeasurably fast, and laved 
With alternating dash the gnarled roots 
Of mighty trees, that stretched their giant arms 
In darkness over it. F the midst was left, 
Reflecting yet distorting every cloud, 
A pool of treacherous and tremendous calm. 
Seized by the sway of the ascending stream, 
With dizzy swiftness, round and round and 

round, 
Ridge after ridge the straining boat arose, 
Till on the verge of the extremest curve, 
Where through an opening of the rocky bank 
The waters overflow, and a smooth spot 
Of glassy quiet 'mid those battling tides 
Is left, the boat paused shuddering. — Shall it 

sink 
Down the abyss ? Shall the reverting stress 
Of that resistless gulf embosom it ? 



232 £>rim jaoems of &>\)tl\ty 

Now shall it fall ? — A wandering stream c | [ 

wind 
Breathed from the west, has caught the expandei|[ 

sail, 
And, lo ! with gentle motion between banks 
Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream, 
Beneath a woven grove, it sails, and hark ! 
The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar 
With the breeze murmuring in the musics! 

woods. 
Where the embowering trees recede, and leavei 
A little space of green expanse, the cove 
Is closed by meeting banks, whose yellov 

flowers 
Forever gaze on their own drooping eyes, 
Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave 
Of the boat's motion marred their pensive taskt 
Which nought but vagrant bird, or wantoii 

wind, 
Or falling spear-grass, or their own decay 
Had e'er disturbed before. The Poet longed 
To deck with their bright hues his witherec 

hair, 
But on his heart its solitude returned, 
And he forbore. Not the strong impulse hid 
In those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and shadowy 

frame, 
Had yet performed its ministry ; it hung 



aiastor 233 

Jpon his life, as lightning in a cloud 
jleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the floods 
)f night close over it. 



The noonday sun 
^ow shone upon the forest, one vast mass 
)f mingling shade, whose brown magnificence 
narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves, 
icooped in the dark base of their aery rocks, 
locking its moans, respond and roar forever. 
The meeting boughs and implicated leaves 
vVove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led 
By love, or dream, or god, or mightier Death, 
le sought in Nature's dearest haunt some bank, 
ler cradle and his sepulchre. More dark 
\nd dark the shades accumulate. The oak, 
Expanding its immense and knotty arms, 
mbraces the light beech. The pyramids 
Df the tall cedar overarching frame 
Vlost solemn domes within, and far below, 
_,ike clouds suspended in an emerald sky, 
The ash and the acacia floating hang 
Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents, 

clothed 
[n rainbow and in fire, the parasites, 
Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around 
The gray trunks, and, as gamesome infants' 
eyes, 



234 Select |Boem0 of ^tjellep 

With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles. 
Fold their beams round the hearts of those that 

love, 
These twine their tendrils with the wedded 

boughs, 
Uniting their close union; the woven leaves 
Make network of the dark blue light of day 
And the night's noontide clearness, mutable 
As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy, 

lawns 
Beneath these canopies extend their swells, 
Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with 

blooms 
Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen 
Sends from its woods of musk-rose twined with 

jasmine 
A soul-dissolving odor to invite 
To some more lovely mystery. Through the 

dell 
Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep 
Their noonday watch, and sail among the 

shades 
Like vaporous shapes half-seen; beyond, a well, 
Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave, 
Images all the woven boughs above, 
And each depending leaf, and every speck 
Of azure sky darting between their chasms ; 
Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves 



aiaator 235 

[ts portraiture, but some inconstant star, 
Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair, 
Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon, 
Or gorgeous insect floating motionless, 
Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings 
Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon. 

Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld 

Their own wan light through the reflected 

lines 
Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth 
Of that still fountain ; as the human heart, 
Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave, 
Sees its own treacherous likeness there. He 

heard 
The motion of the leaves — the grass that 

sprung 

Startled and glanced and trembled even to feel 
An unaccustomed presence — and the sound 
Of the sweet brook that from the secret springs 
Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit seemed 
To stand beside him — clothed in no bright 

robes 

Of shadowy silver or enshrining light, 
Borrowed from aught the visible world affords 
Of grace, or majesty, or mystery ; 
But undulating woods, and silent well, 
And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom 



236 g>eiect poem* of gfytWty 

Now deepening the dark shades, for speech as- 
suming, 
Held commune with him, as if he and it 
Were all that was ; only — when his regard 
Was raised by intense pensiveness — two eyes, 
Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought, 
And seemed with their serene and azure smiles 
To beckon him. 

Obedient to the light 
That shone within his soul, he went, pursuing 
The windings of the dell. The rivulet, 
Wanton and wild, through many a green ra- 
vine 
Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it fell 
Among the moss with hollow harmony 
Dark and profound. Now on the polished 

stones 
It danced, like childhood laughing as it went ; 
Then, through the plain in tranquil wanderings 

crept, 
Reflecting every herb and drooping bud 
That overhung its quietness. — ' O stream ! 
Whose source is inaccessibly profound : 
Whither do thy mysterious waters tend ? 
Thou imagest my life. Thy darksome stillness, 
Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow 
gulfs, 



SPtetor 237 

Thy searchless fountain and invisible course, 
Have each their type in me ; and the wide sky 
And measureless ocean may declare as soon 
What oozy cavern or what wandering cloud 
Contains thy waters, as the universe 
Tell where these living thoughts reside, when 

stretched 
Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall waste 
P the passing wind ! ' 

Beside the grassy shore 
Of the small stream he went ; he did impress 
On the green moss his tremulous step, that 

caught 
Strong shuddering from his burning limbs. As 

one 
Roused by some joyous madness from the 

couch 
Of fever, he did move; yet not like him 
Forgetful of the grave, where, when the flame 
Of his frail exultation shall be spent, 
He must descend. With rapid steps he went 
Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow 
Of the wild babbling rivulet; and now 
The forest's solemn canopies were changed 
For the uniform and lightsome evening sky. 
Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, and 

stemmed 



238 Select poems; of Relies 

The struggling brook ; tall spires of windlestrae 
Threw their thin shadows down the rugged 

slope, 
And nought but gnarled roots of ancient pines 
Branchless and blasted, clenched with grasping 

roots 
The unwilling soil. A gradual change was here 
Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow away, 
The smooth brow gathers, and the hair grows 

thin 
And white, and where irradiate dewy eyes 
Had shone, gleam stony orbs : — so from his 

steps 
Bright flowers departed, and the beautiful shade 
Of the green groves, with all their odorous winds 
And musical motions. Calm he still pursued 
The stream, that with a larger volume now 
Rolled through the labyrinthine dell ; and there 
Fretted a path through its descending curves 
With its wintry speed. On every side now rose 
Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms, 
Lifted their black and barren pinnacles 
In the light of evening, and its precipice 
Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above, 
'Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and yawning 

caves, 
Whose windings gave ten thousand various 

tongues 



SUatftor 239 

To the loud stream. Lo ! where the pass ex- 
pands 
Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks, 
And seems with its accumulated crags 
To overhang the world ; for wide expand 
Beneath the wan stars and descending moon 
Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams, 
Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous 

gloom 
Of leaden-colored even, and fiery hills 
Mingling their flames with twilight, on the 

verge 
Of the remote horizon. The near scene, 
In naked and severe simplicity, 
Made contrast with the universe. A pine, 
Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the vacancy 
Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast 
Yielding one only response at each pause 
In most familiar cadence, with the howl, 
The thunder and the hiss of homeless streams 
Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad 

river 
Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged path, 
Fell into that immeasurable void, 
Scattering its waters to the passing winds. 

Yet the gray precipice and solemn pine 
And torrent were not all ; — one silent nook 



240 Select poems of ^jelley 

Was there. Even on the edge of that vast 

mountain, 
Upheld by knotty roots and fallen rocks, 
It overlooked in its serenity 
The dark earth and the bending vault of stars. 
It was a tranquil spot that seemed to smile 
Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped 
The fissured stones with its entwining arms, 
And did embower with leaves forever green 
And berries dark the smooth and even space 
Of its inviolated floor ; and here 
The children of the autumnal whirlwind bore 
In wanton sport those bright leaves whose decay, 
Red, yellow, or ethereally pale, 
Rivals the pride of summer. 'T is the haunt 
Of every gentle wind whose breath can teach 
The wilds to love tranquillity. One step, 
One human step alone, has ever broken 
The stillness of its solitude ; one voice 
Alone inspired its echoes ; — even that voice 
Which hither came, floating among the winds, 
And led the loveliest among human forms 
To make their wild haunts the depository 
Of all the grace and beauty that endued 
Its motions, render up its majesty, 
Scatter its music on the unfeeling storm, 
And to the damp leaves and blue cavern 
mould, 



#la$tor 241 

Nurses of rainbow flowers and branching moss, 
Commit the colors of that varying cheek, 
That snowy breast, those dark and drooping 
eyes. 

The dim and horned moon hung low, and 

poured 

A sea of lustre on the horizon's verge 
That overflowed its mountains. Yellow mist 
Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and drank 
Wan moonlight even to fulness ; not a star 
Shone, not a sound was heard ; the very winds, 
Danger's grim playmates, on that precipice 
Slept, clasped in his embrace. — O storm of 

death, 

Whose sightless speed divides this sullen night ! 
And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still 
Guiding its irresistible career 
In thy devastating omnipotence, 
Art king of this frail world ! from the red field 
Of slaughter, from the reeking hospital, 
The patriot's sacred couch, the snowy bed 
Of innocence, the scaffold and the throne, 
A mighty voice invokes thee ! Ruin calls 
His brother Death ! A rare and regal prey 
He hath prepared, prowling around the world ; 
Glutted with which thou mayst repose, and 

men 



242 Select poems of gtyeilep 



ing 



Go to their graves like flowers or creepin 

worms, 
Nor ever more offer at thy dark shrine 
The unheeded tribute of a broken heart. 

When on the threshold of the green recess 
The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew thati 

death 
Was on him. Yet a little, ere it fled, 
Did he resign his high and holy soul 
To images of the majestic past, 
That paused within his passive being now, 
Like winds that bear sweet music, when they 

breathe 
Through some dim latticed chamber. He did 

place 
His pale lean hand upon the rugged trunk 
Of the old pine ; upon an ivied stone 
Reclined his languid head ; his limbs did rest, 
Diffused and motionless, on the smooth brink 
Of that obscurest chasm ; — and thus he lay, 
Surrendering to their final impulses 
The hovering powers of life. Hope and 

Despair, 
The torturers, slept ; no mortal pain or fear 
Marred his repose ; the influxes of sense 
And his own being, unalloyed by pain, 
Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fed 



atotor 243 

The stream of thought, till he lay breathing 

there 
At peace, and faintly smiling. His last sight 
Was the great moon, which o'er the western 

line 
Of the wide world her mighty horn suspended, 
With whose dun beams inwoven darkness 

seemed 
To mingle. Now upon the jagged hills 
It rests ; and still as the divided frame 
Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood, 
That ever beat in mystic sympathy 
With Nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler still ; 
And when two lessening points of light alone 
Gleamed through the darkness, the alternate 

gasp 

Of his faint respiration scarce did stir 
The stagnate night : — till the minutest ray 
Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in his 

heart. 
It paused — it fluttered. But when heaven re- 
mained 
Utterly black, the murky shades involved 
An image silent, cold, and motionless, 
As their own voiceless earth and vacant air. 
Even as a vapor fed with golden beams 
That ministered on sunlight, ere the west 
Eclipses it, was now that wondrous frame — 



244 Select poems of Relies 

No sense, no motion, no divinity — 

A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings 

The breath of heaven did wander — a bright 

stream 
Once fed with many-voiced waves — a dream 
Of youth, which night and time have quenched 

forever — 
Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered now. 



: 



Oh, for Medea's wondrous alchemy, 
Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth glea 
With bright flowers, and the wintry bough 

exhale 
From vernal blooms fresh fragrance ! Oh, that 

God, 
Profuse of poisons, would concede the chalice 
Which but one living man has drained, who 

now, 
Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels 
No proud exemption in the blighting curse 
He bears, over the world wanders forever, 
Lone as incarnate death ! Oh, that the dream 
Of dark magician in his visioned cave, 
Raking the cinders of a crucible 
For life and power, even when his feeble hand 
Shakes in its last decay, were the true law 
Of this so lovely world ! But thou art fled, 
Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn 



aiastor 245 



Robes in its golden beams, — ah ! thou hast fled ! 
Fhe brave, the gentle and the beautiful, 
rhe child of grace and genius. Heartless things 
Are done and said i' the world, and many worms 
And beasts and men live on, and mighty Earth 
"rom sea and mountain, city and wilderness, 

fn vesper low or joyous orison, 
,ifts still its solemn voice : — but thou art fled — 
Thou, canst no longer know or love the shapes 
Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee 
Been purest ministers, who are, alas ! 
Now thou art not ! Upon those pallid lips 
So sweet even in their silence, on those eyes 
That image sleep in death, upon that form 
Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let no tear 
Be shed — not even in thought. Nor, when 

those hues 
Are gone, and those divinest lineaments, 
Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone 
In the frail pauses of this simple strain, 
Let not high verse, mourning the memory 
Of that which is no more, or painting's woe 
Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery 
Their own cold powers. Art and eloquence, 
And all the shows o' the world, are frail and vain 
To weep a loss that turns their lights to shade. 
It is a woe " too deep for tears," when all 
Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit, 



246 Select l&oema of gtyeliei? 

Whose light adorned the world around it, leaves 
Those who remain behind, not sobs or groans, 
The passionate tumult of a clinging hope ; 
But pale despair and cold tranquillity, 
Nature's vast frame, the web of human things, 
Birth and the grave, that are not as they were. 



EPIPSYCHIDION 

VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE AND 
UNFORTUNATE LADY 

EMILIA V 

NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT OF 



L' anima amante si slancia fuori del creato, e si crea nell' infinito 
un mondo tutto per essa, di verso assai da questo oscuro e pauroso 
baratro. 

Her own Words. 

My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few 
Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning, 
Of such hard matter dost thou entertain ; 
Whence, if by misadventure chance should bring 
Thee to base company (as chance may do) 
Quite unaware of what thou dost contain, 
I prithee, comfort thy sweet self again, 
My last delight ! tell them that they are dull, 
And bid them own that thou art beautiful. 

Sweet Spirit ! sister of that orphan one, 
Whose empire is the name thou weepest on, 



C£pip$£et)iDion 247 

In my heart's temple I suspend to thee 
These votive wreaths of withered memory. 

Poor captive bird ! who from thy narrow 
cage 
Pourest such music that it might assuage 
, The rugged hearts of those who prisoned thee, 
Were they not deaf to all sweet melody, — 
This song shall be thy rose ; its petals pale 
Are dead, indeed, my adored nightingale ! 
But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom, 
And it has no thorn left to wound thy bosom. 

High, spirit-winged Heart ! who dost for- 
ever 
Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain endeavor, 
Till those bright plumes of thought, in which 

arrayed 
It over-soared this low and worldly shade, 
Lie shattered ; and thy panting wounded breast 
Stains with dear blood its unmaternal nest ! 
I weep vain tears ; blood would less bitter be, 
Yet poured forth gladlier, could it profit thee. 

Seraph of Heaven ! too gentle to be human, 
Veiling beneath that radiant form of Woman 
All that is insupportable in thee 
Of light, and love, and immortality ! 



248 gtftm poem* of g^Uep 

Sweet Benediction in the eternal Curse ! 
Veiled glory of this lampless Universe ! 
Thou Moon beyond the clouds ! thou living 

Form 
Among the Dead ! thou Star above the Storm ! 
Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou Ter- 1 

ror! 
Thou Harmony of Nature's art ! thou Mirror 
In whom, as in the splendor of the Sun, 
All shapes look glorious which thou gazest on ! 
Ay, even the dim words which obscure thee 

now 
Flash, lightning-like, with unaccustomed glow; 
I pray thee that thou blot from this sad song 
All of its much mortality and wrong, 
With those clear drops, which start like sacred i 

dew 
From the twin lights thy sweet soul darkens, 

through, 
Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy — 
Then smile on it, so that it may not die. 

I never thought before my death to see 
Youth's vision thus made perfect. Emily, 
[ love thee ; though the world by no thin name 
Will hide that love from its unvalued shame. 
Would we two had been twins of the same 
mother ! 



(Epip01?ct)toiou 249 

Or that the name my heart lent to another 
Could be a sister's bond for her and thee, 
Blending two beams of one eternity ! 
Yet were one lawful and the other true, 
These names, though dear, could paint not, as 

is due, 
How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me ! 
I am not thine — I am a part of thee. 

Sweet Lamp ! my moth-like Muse has burned 

its wings ; 
Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings, 
Young Love should teach Time, in his own gray 

style, 
All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile, 
A lovely soul formed to be blessed and bless ? 
A well of sealed and secret happiness, 
Whose waters like blithe light and music are, 
Vanquishing dissonance and gloom ? a star 
Which moves not in the moving Heavens, 

alone ? 
A smile amid dark frowns ? a gentle tone 
Amid rude voices ? a beloved light ? 
A solitude, a refuge, a delight ? 
A lute, which those whom love has taught to 

play 
Make music on, to soothe the roughest day 
And lull fond grief asleep ? a buried treasure ? 



250 Select poem* of gtyellep 

A cradle of young thoughts of wingless plea- 
sure ? 
A violet-shrouded grave of woe ? — I measure 
The world of fancies, seeking one like thee, 
And find — alas ! mine own infirmity. 

She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way, 
And lured me towards sweet death ; as Night 

by Day, 
Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift Hope, 
Led into light, life, peace. An antelope, 
In the suspended impulse of its lightness, 
Were less ethereally light ; the brightness 
Of her divinest presence trembles through 
Her limbs, as underneath a cloud of dew 
Embodied in the windless heaven of June, 
Amid the splendor-winged stars, the Moon 
Burns, inextinguishably beautiful ; 
And from her lips, as from a hyacinth full 
Of honey-dew, a liquid murmur drops, 
Killing the sense with passion, sweet as stops 
Of planetary music heard in trance. 
In her mild lights the starry spirits dance, 
The sunbeams of those wells which ever leap 
Under the lightnings of the soul — too deep 
For the brief fathom-line of thought or sense. 
The glory of her being, issuing thence, 
Stains the dead, blank, cold air with a warm shade 



€vipfyt\)foion 251 

Of unentangled intermixture, made 
By Love, of light and motion ; one intense 
Diffusion, one serene Omnipresence, 
Whose flowing outlines mingle in their flow- 
ing. 
Around her cheeks and utmost fingers glowing, 
With the unintermitted blood, which there 
Quivers (as in a fleece of snow-like air 
The crimson pulse of living morning quiver) 
Continuously prolonged, and ending never 
Till they are lost, and in that Beauty furled 
Which penetrates, and clasps and fills the world ; 
Scarce visible from extreme loveliness. 
Warm fragrance seems to fall from her light 

dress, 
And her loose hair ; and where some heavy tress 
The air of her own speed has disentwined, 
The sweetness seems to satiate the faint wind j 
And in the soul a wild odor is felt, 
Beyond the sense, like fiery dews that melt 
Into the bosom of a frozen bud. 
See where she stands ! a mortal shape indued 
With love and life and light and deity, 
And motion which may change but cannot die ; 
An image of some bright Eternity ; 
A shadow of some golden dream ; a Splendor 
Leaving the third sphere pilotless ; a tender 
Reflection of the eternal Moon of Love, 



252 g>rUet jaoem* of grtiellep 

Under whose motions life's dull billows move ; 
A metaphor of Spring and Youth and Morn- 
ing ; 
A vision like incarnate April, warning, 
With smiles and tears, Frost the Anatomy 
Into his summer grave. 

Ah ! woe is me ! 
What have I dared ? where am I lifted ? how 
Shall I descend, and perish not ? I know 
That Love makes all things equal ; I have heard 
By mine own heart this joyous truth averred : 
The spirit of the worm beneath the sod, 
In love and worship, blends itself with God. 

Spouse ! Sister ! Angel ! Pilot of the Fate 
Whose course has been so starless ! Oh, too 

late 
Beloved ! Oh, too soon adored, by me ! 
For in the fields of immortality 
My spirit should at first have worshipped thine, 
A divine presence in a place divine ; 
Or should have moved beside it on this earth, 
A shadow of that substance, from its birth ; 
But not as now. I love thee ; yes, I feel 
That on the fountain of my heart a seal 
Is set, to keep its waters pure and bright 
For thee, since in those tears thou hast delight. 



We — are we not formed, as notes of music are, 
For one another, though dissimilar; 
Such difference without discord as can make 
Those sweetest sounds, in which all spirits 

shake 
As trembling leaves in a continuous air ? 

Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me dare 
Beacon the rocks on which high hearts are 

wrecked. 
I never was attached to that great sect, 
Whose doctrine is, that each one should select 
Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend, 
And all the rest, though fair and wise, com- 
mend 
To cold oblivion, though 't is in the code 
Of modern morals, and the beaten road 
Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps 

tread 
Who travel to their home among the dead 
By the broad highway of the world, and so 
With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe, 
The dreariest and the longest journey go. 

True Love in this differs from gold and clay 
That to divide is not to take away. 
Love is like understanding that grows bright 
Gazing on many truths ; 't is like thy light, 



254 Select poems of grtjellep 

Imagination ! which, from earth and sky, 
And from the depths of human fantasy, 
As from a thousand prisms and mirrors, fills 
The Universe with glorious beams, and kills 
Error, the worm, with many a sun-like arrow 
Of its reverberated lightning. Narrow 
The heart that loves, the brain that contem- 
plates, 
The life that wears, the spirit that creates 
One object, and one form, and builds thereby 
A sepulchre for its eternity. 

Mind from its object differs most in this 
Evil from good ; misery from happiness ; 
The baser from the nobler ; the impure 
And frail, from what is clear and must endure : 
If you divide suffering and dross, you may 
Diminish till it is consumed away ; 
If you divide pleasure and love and thought, 
Each part exceeds the whole; and we know 

not 
How much, while any yet remains unshared, 
Of pleasure may be gained, of sorrow spared. 
This truth is that deep well, whence sages 

draw 
The unenvied light of hope ; the eternal law 
By which those live, to whom this world of life 
Is as a garden ravaged, and whose strife 



(Eptp^ctjiUton 255 

Tills for the promise of a later birth 
The wilderness of this Elysian earth. 

There was a Being whom my spirit oft 
Viet on its visioned wanderings, far aloft, 
[n the clear golden prime of my youth's dawn, 
Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn, 
Amid the enchanted mountains, and the caves 
Of divine sleep, and on the air-like waves 
Of wonder-level dream, whose tremulous floor 
Paved her light steps. On an imagined shore, 
Under the gray beak of some promontory 
She met me, robed in such exceeding glory 
That I beheld her not. In solitudes 
Her voice came to me through the whispering 

woods, 

And from the fountains and the odors deep 
Of flowers, which, like lips murmuring in their 

sleep 
Of the sweet kisses which had lulled them 

there, 
Breathed but of her to the enamoured air ; 
And from the breezes whether low or loud, 
And from the rain of every passing cloud, 
And from the singing of the summer-birds, 
And from all sounds, all silence. In the words 
Of antique verse and high romance, in form, 
Sound, color, in whatever checks that Storm 



256 Select JBoems of g>t)elle£ 

Which with the shattered present chokes the 

past, 
And in that best philosophy, whose taste 
Makes this cold common hell, our life, a 

doom 
As glorious as a fiery martyrdom — 
Her spirit was the harmony of truth. 

Then from the caverns of my dreamy youth 
I sprang, as one sandalled with plumes of fire, 
And towards the lodestar of my one desire 
I flitted, like a dizzy moth, whose flight 
Is as a dead leafs in the owlet light, 
When it would seek in Hesper's setting! 

sphere 
A radiant death, a fiery sepulchre, 
As if it were a lamp of earthly flame. 
But She, whom prayers or tears then could not 

tame, 
Passed, like a god throned on a winged planet, 
Whose burning plumes to tenfold swiftness fan 

it, 
Into the dreary cone of our life's shade ; 
And as a man with mighty loss dismayed, 
I would have followed, though the grave be- 
tween 
Yawned like a gulf whose spectres are un- 
seen i 



d^pip^ctiiuion 257 

When a voice said : — c O Thou of hearts the 

weakest, 
The phantom is beside thee whom thou 

seekest.' 
Then I — ' Where ? ' the world's echo an- 
swered ' Where ? ' 
And in that silence, and in my despair, 
I questioned every tongueless wind that flew 
Over my tower of mourning, if it knew 
Whither 't was fled, this soul out of my soul ; 
And murmured names and spells which have 

control 
Over the sightless tyrants of our fate; 
But neither prayer nor verse could dissipate 
The night which closed on her; nor uncreate 
That world within this Chaos, mine and me, 
Of which she was the veiled Divinity, — 
The world I say of thoughts that worshipped 

her; 
And therefore I went forth, with hope and 

fear 
And every gentle passion sick to death, 
Feeding my course with expectation's breath, 
[nto the wintry forest of our life ; 
And struggling through its error with vain 

strife, 
And stumbling in my weakness and my haste, 
And half bewildered by new forms, I passed 



258 Select ^oems of £>\)t\lty 

Seeking among those untaught foresters 

If I could find one form resembling hers, 

In which she might have masked herself from 

me. 
There, — One whose voice was venomed I 

melody 
Sate by a well, under blue night-shade bowers ; 
The breath of her false mouth was like faint! 

flowers ; 
Her touch was as electric poison, — flame 
Out of her looks into my vitals came, 
And from her living cheeks and bosom flew 
A killing air, which pierced like honey-dew 
Into the core of my green heart, and lay 
Upon its leaves ; until, as hair grown gray 
O'er a young brow, they hid its unblown prime: 
With ruins of unseasonable time. 

In many mortal forms I rashly sought 
The shadow of that idol of my thought. 
And some were fair — but beauty dies away; 
Others were wise — but honeyed words betray; 
And one was true — oh ! why not true to me ? 
Then, as a hunted deer that could not flee, 
I turned upon my thoughts, and stood at bay, 
Wounded and weak and panting ; the cold day 
Trembled, for pity of my strife and pain, 
When, like a noonday dawn, there shone again 



d^ptps^ctiituon 259 

Deliverance. One stood on my path who 

seemed 
As like the glorious shape, which I had dreamed, 
As is the Moon, whose changes ever run 
Into themselves, to the eternal Sun ; 
The cold chaste Moon, the Queen of Heaven's 

bright isles, 
Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles ; 
That wandering shrine of soft yet icy flame, 
Which ever is transformed, yet still the same, 
And warms not but illumines. Young and fair 
As the descended Spirit of that sphere, 
She hid me, as the Moon may hide the night 
From its own darkness, until all was bright 
Between the Heaven and Earth of my calm 

mind, 
And, as a cloud charioted by the wind, 
She led me to a cave in that wild place, 
And sate beside me, with her downward face 
Illumining my slumbers, like the Moon 
Waxing and waning o'er Endymion. 
And I was laid asleep, spirit and limb, 
And all my being became bright or dim 
As the Moon's image in a summer sea, 
According as she smiled or frowned on me ; 
And there I lay, within a chaste cold bed. 
Alas, I then was nor alive nor dead ; 
For at her silver voice came Death and Life, 



260 Select JBoem* of grtjellej? 

Unmindful each of their accustomed strife, 
Masked like twin babes, a sister and a brother, 
The wandering hopes of one abandoned mo- 
ther, 
And through the cavern without wings they 

flew, 
And cried, ' Away ! he is not of our crew.' 
I wept, and though it be a dream, I weep. 

What storms then shook the ocean of my, 

sleep, 
Blotting that Moon, whose pale and waning; 

lips 
Then shrank as in the sickness of eclipse ; 
And how my soul was as a lampless sea, 
And who was then its Tempest ; and when; 

She, 
The Planet of that hour, was quenched, what 

frost 

Crept o'er those waters, till from coast to coast 
The moving billows of my being fell 
Into a death of ice, immovable ; 
And then what earthquakes made it gape and 

split, 
The white Moon smiling all the while on it ; - 
These words conceal; if not, each word would 

be 
The key of stanchless tears. Weep not for me 



i 



Cpipa^ctiiliton 261 

At length, into the obscure forest came 
The Vision I had sought through grief an 

shame. 

Athwart that wintry wilderness of thorns 
Flashed from her motion splendor like the 

Morn's, 

And from her presence life was radiated 
Through the gray earth and branches bare and 

dead ; 

So that her way was paved and roofed above 
With flowers as soft as thoughts of budding 

love ; 

And music from her respiration spread 
Like light, — all other sounds were penetrated 
By the small, still, sweet spirit of that sound, 
So that the savage winds hung mute around ; 
And odors warm and fresh fell from her hair 
Dissolving the dull cold in the frore air. 
Soft as an Incarnation of the Sun, 
When light is changed to love, this glorious One 
Floated into the cavern where I lay, 
And called my Spirit, and the dreaming clay 
Was lifted by the thing that dreamed below 
As smoke by fire, and in her beauty's glow 
} I stood, and felt the dawn of my long night 
Was penetrating me with living light ; 
I knew it was the Vision veiled from me 
So many years — that it was Emily. 



262 Select jaoroia of £>t)elley 

Twin Spheres of light who rule this passive j 

Earth, 
This world of love, this me ; and into birth 
Awaken all its fruits and flowers, and dart 
Magnetic might into its central heart ; 
And lift its billows and its mists, and guide 
By everlasting laws each wind and tide . 

To its fit cloud, and its appointed cave ; 
And lull its storms, each in the craggy grave 
Which was its cradle, luring to faint bowers 
The armies of the rainbow-winged showers ; 
And, as those married lights, which from the 

towers 
Of Heaven look forth and fold the wandering 

globe j 

In liquid sleep and splendor, as a robe ; 
And all their many-mingled influence blend, 
If equal, yet unlike, to one sweet end ; — 
So ye, bright regents, with alternate sway, 
Govern my sphere of being, night and day ! 
Thou, not disdaining even a borrowed might ; 
Thou, not eclipsing a remoter light ; 
And, through the shadow of the seasons three, 
From Spring to Autumn's sere maturity, 
Light it into the Winter of the tomb, 
Where it may ripen to a brighter bloom. 
Thou too, O Comet, beautiful and fierce, 
Who drew the heart of this frail Universe 






(3;pip$l?ei)iDion 263 

I Towards thine own ; till, wrecked in that con- 
vulsion, 
Alternating attraction and repulsion, 
j Thine went astray, and that was rent in twain ; 
Oh, float into our azure heaven again ! 
Be there love's folding-star at thy return ; 
The living Sun will feed thee from its urn 
Of golden fire; the Moon will veil her horn 
In thy last smiles ; adoring Even and Morn 
Will worship thee with incense of calm breath 
And lights and shadows, as the star of Death 
And Birth is worshipped by those sisters wild 
Called Hope and Fear — upon the heart are piled 
Their ofFerings, - — of this sacrifice divine 
A world shall be the altar. 

Lady mine, 
Scorn not these flowers of thought, the fading 

birth, 
Which from its heart of hearts that plant puts 

forth, 
Whose fruit, made perfect by thy sunny eyes, 
Will be as of the trees of Paradise. 

The day is come, and thou wilt fly with me. 
To whatsoe'er of dull mortality 
Is mine remain a vestal sister still ; 
To the intense, the deep, the imperishable, 



264 Select JBoem* of Styellei? 

Not mine, but me, henceforth be thou united 
Even as a bride, delighting and delighted. 
The hour is come — the destined Star has risen 
Which shall descend upon a vacant prison. 
The walls are high, the gates are strong, thick set 
The sentinels — but true love never yet 
Was thus constrained ; it overleaps all fence ; 
Like lightning, with invisible violence 
Piercing its continents ; like Heaven's free 

breath, 
Which he who grasps can hold not ; liker Death, 
Who rides upon a thought, and makes his way 
Through temple, tower, and palace, and the 

array 
Of arms ; more strength has Love than he or 

they; 
For it can burst his channel, and make free 
The limbs in chains, the heart in agony, 
The soul in dust and chaos. 



Emily, 
A ship is floating in the harbor now, 
A wind is hovering o'er the mountain's brow ; 
There is a path on the sea's azure floor — 
No keel has ever ploughed that path before ; 
The halcyons brood around the foamless isles ; 
The treacherous Ocean has forsworn its wiles ; 



dfyijp$£Ct)toion 265 

The merry mariners are bold and free : 

Say, my heart's sister, wilt thou sail with me ? 

Our bark is as an albatross, whose nest 

Is a far Eden of the purple East ; 

And we between her wings will sit, while 

Night, 
And Day, and Storm, and Calm, pursue their 

flight, 
Our ministers, along the boundless Sea, 
Treading each other's heels, unheededly. 
It is an isle under Ionian skies, 
Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise, 
And, for the harbors are not safe and good, 
This land would have remained a solitude 
But for some pastoral people native there, 
Who from the Elysian, clear, and golden air 
Draw the last spirit of the age of gold, 
Simple and spirited, innocent and bold. 
The blue JEgezn girds this chosen home 
With ever-changing sound and light and foam 
Kissing the sifted sands and caverns hoar ; 
And all the winds wandering along the shore 
Undulate with the undulating tide ; 
There are thick woods where sylvan forms 

abide, 
And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond, 
As clear as elemental diamond, 
Or serene morning air ; and far beyond, 



266 Select $otxui# of &>\)t\lty 

The mossy tracks made by the goats and deer 
(Which the rough shepherd treads but once a 

year) 
Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, and 

halls 
Built round with ivy, which the waterfalls 
Illumining, with sound that never fails 
Accompany the noonday nightingales ; 
And all the place is peopled with sweet airs ; 
The light clear element which the isle wears 
Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers, 
Which floats like mist laden with unseen 

showers, 
And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep; 
And from the moss violets and jonquils peep, 
And dart their arrowy odor through the brain 
Till you might faint with that delicious pain. 
And every motion, odor, beam, and tone, 
With that deep music is in unison, 
Which is a soul within the soul ; they seem 
Like echoes of an antenatal dream. 
It is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, and 

Sea, 
Cradled and hung in clear tranquillity ; 
Bright as that wandering Eden, Lucifer, 
Washed by the soft blue Oceans of young air. 
It is a favored place. Famine or Blight, 
Pestilence, War, and Earthquake, never light 



<[];pip0£Ci)toion 267 

XJ\ jn its mountain-peaks ; blind vultures, they 
Sail onward far upon their fatal way; 
* he winged storms, chanting their thunder- 
psalm 
To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm 
Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew, 
From which its fields and woods ever renew 
Their green and golden immortality. 
And from the sea there rise, and from the sky 
There fall, clear exhalations, soft and bright, 
Veil after veil, each hiding some delight, 
Which Sun or Moon or zephyr draw aside, 
Till the isle's beauty, like a naked bride 
Glowing at once with love and loveliness, 
Blushes and trembles at its own excess ; 
Yet, like a buried lamp, a Soul no less 
Burns in the heart of this delicious isle, 
An atom of the Eternal, whose own smile 
Unfolds itself, and may be felt, not seen, 
O'er the gray rocks, blue waves, and forests 

green, 
Filling their bare and void interstices. 
But the chief marvel of the wilderness 
Is a lone dwelling, built by whom or how 
None of the rustic island-people know ; 
'T is not a tower of strength, though with its 

height 
It overtops the woods ; but, for delight, 



268 Select ^ottm of Relies 

Some wise and tender Ocean-King, ere crime 

Had been invented, in the world's young prime, 

Reared it, a wonder of that simple time, 

An envy of the isles, a pleasure-house 

Made sacred to his sister and his spouse. 

It scarce seems now a wreck of human art, 

But, as it were, Titanic, in the heart 

Of Earth having assumed its form, then grown 

Out of the mountains, from the living stone, 

Lifting itself in caverns light and high ; 

For all the antique and learned imagery 

Has been erased, and in the place of it 

The ivy and the wild vine interknit 

The volumes of their many-twining stems ; 

Parasite flowers illume with dewy gems 

The lampless halls, and, when they fade, the 

sky 
Peeps through their winter-woof of tracery 
With moonlight patches, or star-atoms keen, 
Or fragments of the day's intense serene, 
Working mosaic on their Parian floors. 
And, day and night, aloof, from the high 

towers 
And terraces, the Earth and Ocean seem 
To sleep in one another's arms, and dream 
Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, and all 

that we 
Read in their smiles, and call reality. 



€pi$*yt\)toion 269 

This isle and house are mine, and I have 

vowed 
Thee to be lady of the solitude. 
And I have fitted up some chambers there 
Looking towards the golden Eastern air, 
And level with the living winds, which flow 
Like waves above the living waves below. 
I have sent books and music there, and all 
Those instruments with which high spirits call 
The future from its cradle, and the past 
Out of its grave, and make the present last 
In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die, 
Folded within their own eternity. 
Our simple life wants little, and true taste 
Hires not the pale drudge Luxury to waste 
The scene it would adorn, and therefore still 
Nature with all her children haunts the hill. 
The ring-dove, in the embowering ivy, yet 
Keeps up her love-lament, and the owls flit 
Round the evening tower, and the young stars 

glance 
Between the quick bats in their twilight dance ; 
The spotted deer bask in the fresh moonlight 
Before our gate, and the slow silent night 
Is measured by the pants of their calm sleep. 
Be this our home in life, and when years heap 
Their withered hours, like leaves, on our decay, 
Let us become the overhanging day, 



270 Select poems of gtyellep 

The living soul of this Elysian isle, 
Conscious, inseparable, one. Meanwhile 
We two will rise, and sit, and walk together 
Under the roof of blue Ionian weather, 
And wander in the meadows, or ascend 
The mossy mountains where the blue heavens 

bend 
With lightest winds, to touch their paramour; 
Or linger, where the pebble-paven shore, 
Under the quick faint kisses of the sea 
Trembles and sparkles as with ecstasy, — 
Possessing and possessed by all that is 
Within that calm circumference of bliss, 
And by each other, till to love and live 
Be one; or, at the noontide hour, arrive 
Where some old cavern hoar seems yet to keep 
The moonlight of the expired night asleep, 
Through which the awakened day can never 

peep ; 
A veil for our seclusion, close as Night's, 
Where secure sleep may kill thine innocent 

lights ; 
Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the rain 
Whose drops quench kisses till they burn again. 
And we will talk, until thought's melody 
Become too sweet for utterance, and it die 
In words, to live again in looks, which dart 
With thrilling tone into the voiceless heart, 



<&pipfyt\)foion 271 

Harmonizing silence without a sound. 
Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound, 
And our veins beat together; and our lips, 
With other eloquence than words, eclipse 
The soul that burns between them ; and the wells 
Which boil under our being's inmost cells, 
The fountains of our deepest life, shall be 
Confused in passion's golden purity, 
As mountain-springs under the morning Sun. 
We shall become the same, we shall be one 
Spirit within two frames, oh ! wherefore two ? 
One passion in twin-hearts, which grows and 

grew, 
Till like two meteors of expanding flame 
Those spheres instinct with it become the same, 
Touch, mingle, are transfigured ; ever still 
Burning, yet ever inconsumable; 
In one another's substance finding food, 
Like flames too pure and light and unimbued 
To nourish their bright lives with baser prey, 
Which point to Heaven and cannot pass away ; 
One hope within two wills, one will beneath 
Two overshadowing minds, one life, one death, 
One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality, 
And one annihilation. Woe is me ! 
The winged words on which my soul would 

pierce 
Into the height of love's rare Universe 



272 Select |Boent0 of S>lieiie^ 

Are chains of lead around its flight of fire. 
I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire! 



Weak Verses, go, kneel at your Sovereign's 
feet, 
And say : — c We are the masters of thy slave; 
What wouldest thou with us and ours and j 

thine ? ' 
Then call your sisters from Oblivion's cave, 
All singing loud : ' Love's very pain is sweet, 
But its reward is in the world divine, 
Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.' 
So shall ye live when I am there. Then haste 
Over the hearts of men, until ye meet 
Marina, Vanna, Primus, and the rest, 
And bid them love each other and be blessed ; 
And leave the troop which errs, and which re- 
proves, 
And come and be my guest, — for I am Love's. 



aaonat* 273 



ADONAIS 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN 
KEATS 



Nvv 8h duvbv, Act/xffeis coirepos 4u (pfli/zeVou. 

Plato. 



I weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 
Oh, weep for Adonais ! though our tears 
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head ! 
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years 
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure com- 
peers, 
And teach them thine own sorrow ! Say : 

4 With me 
Died Adonais ; till the Future dares 
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be 
An echo and a light unto eternity ! ' 

II 
Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he 

lay, 
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which 

flies 
In darkness ? where was lorn Urania 
When Adonais died ? With veiled eyes, 



274 Select 1&otm* of Relies 

'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise 

She sate, while one, with soft enamoured 

breath, 
Rekindled all the fading melodies, 
With which, like flowers that mock the cors* 
beneath, |j 

He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of 
death. 

ill 

Oh, weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weer £ 
Yet wherefore ? Quench within their bur 

ing bed 
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart kee 
Like his a mute and uncomplaining sleep ; 
For he is gone where all things wise and f 
Descend. Oh, dream not that the amoro 

Deep 
Will yet restore him to the vital air ; 
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs ; * 

our despair. 

IV 

Most musical of mourners, weep again ! 
Lament anew, Urania ! — He died, 
Who was the sire of an immortal strain, 
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's 
pride 



Stoonat* 275 

[The r -iest, the slave, and the liberticide 
ITrampled and mocked with many a loathed 

rite 
Of lust and blood ; he went, unterrified, 
fnto the gulf of death ; but his clear Sprite 
w reigns o'er earth, the third among the sons 

of light. 

v 

vlost musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
*ot all to that bright station dared to climb ; 
id happier they their happiness who knew, 
hose tapers yet burn through that night of 
1 time 

which suns perished ; others more sublime, 

uck by the envious wrath of man or God, 

r ve sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime, 

; nd some yet live, treading the thorny road, 

iich leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's 

serene abode. 

VI 

ut now, thy youngest, dearest one has per- 
ished, 

ffce nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, 

-ike a pale flower by some sad maiden 
cherished 

,nd fed with true-love tears instead of dew : 



276 Select JBoem* of Relies 

Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the lajj 
The bloom, whose petals, nipped before thj 

blew, 
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste : 
The broken lily lies — the storm is overpast. 



VII 



To that high Capital, where kingly Death 1 , 
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, 
He came ; and bought, with price of pur 

breath, 
A grave among the eternal. — Come away 
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian d; ; 
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while stni 
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay ; 
Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill 
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. 

VIII 
He will awake no more, oh, never more !' 
Within the twilight chamber spreads apac J 
The shadow of white Death, and at the d 
Invisible Corruption waits to trace 
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-plac; 
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and aw 
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to 
face 



#Donai0 277 

S' fair a prey, till darkness and the law 
Of change shall o'er his sleep the mortal cur- 
tain draw. 



IX 

Oh, weep for Adonais ! — The quick Dreams, 
The passion-winged ministers of thought, 
Who were his flocks, whom near the living 

streams 
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he 

taught 
The love which was its music, wander not, — 
Wander no more, from kindling brain to 

brain, 
But droop there, whence they sprung; and 

mourn their lot 
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet 

pain, 
They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home 

again. 



And one with trembling hand clasps his cold 

head, 
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and 

cries, 
4 Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead ; 
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, 



278 Select poem* of &>ty\lty 

Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies 
A tear some Dream has loosened from his 

brain.' 
Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise ! 
She knew not 't was her own ; as with no stain 
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its 
rain. 

XI 

One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
Washed his light limbs, as if embalming 

them ; 
Another clipped her profuse locks, and threw 
The wreath upon him, like an anadem, 
Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem ; 
Another in her wilful grief would break 
Her bow and winged re^ds, as if to stem 
A greater loss with o 'as more weak ; 

And dull the bar*/. ' - - *. -,., his frozen 



cheek. 



Another Splendor •- ^ ..h alit, 

That mouth whence ^ ..„ .vont to draw the 

breath 
Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded 

wit, 
And pass into the panting heart beneath 



aaonais 279 

WitL lightning and with music ; the damp 

death 
Quenched its caress upon his icy lips ; 
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
Of moonlight vapor, which the cold night clips, 
t flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to 
its eclipse. 

XIII 
And others came — Desires and Adorations, 
Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies, 
Splendors, and Glooms, and glimmering In- 
carnations 
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Fantasies ; 
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, 
And Pleasure,blind with tears, led by the gleam 
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 
Came in slow T^*np ; — the moving pomp 
might <*m ', . 

Like pagear , OLlv *n autumnal stream. 

x 

All he had 1 -embli- julded into thou S ht 
From shape, \ , , -, and odor, and sweet 

sound, 
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
Her eastern watch tower, and her hair un- 
bound, 



280 Select poem* of g^ellep 

Wet with the tears which should adorn the 

ground, 
Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day ; 
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned, . 

Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, 4 

And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their 

dismay. 

XV 

9 
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, 
And feeds her grief with his remembered lay, 
And will no more reply to winds or fountains, 
Or amorous birds perched on the young 

green spray, 
Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day ; 
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear ' 
Than those for whose disdain she pined away * 
Into a shadow of all sounds : — a drear 
Murmur, between their songs, is all the wood- 
men hear. 

XVI 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she 

threw down j 

Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, 
Or they dead leaves ; since her delight is flown, 
For whom should she have waked the sullen 
? 



year 



^Donate 281 

T Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear, 
1 Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 
Thou, Adonais ; wan they stand and sere 
Amid the faint companions of their youth, 
With dew all turned to tears ; odor, to sighing 
ruth. 

XVII 

Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale, 
Mourns not her mate with such melodious 

pain ; 
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale 
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's 

domain 
Her mighty youth with morning, doth com- 
plain, 
Soaring and screaming round her empty nest, 
As Albion wails for thee : the curse of Cain 
Light on his head who pierced thy innocent 
breast, 
And scared the angel soul that was its earthly 
guest ! 

XVIII 

Ah woe is me ! Winter is come and gone, 
But grief returns with the revolving year j 
The airs and streams renew their joyous tone ; 
The ants, the bees, the swallows, reappear ; 



, 



i 



282 Select poem* of &fcelle? 

Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead 

Seasons' bier; 
The amorous birds now pair in every brake, 
And build their mossy homes in field and brere ; 
And the green lizard and the golden snake, 
Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance 

awake. 

xix 4 

Through wood and stream and field and hill 

and Ocean, 
A quickening life from the Earth's heart has 

burst, 
As it has ever done, with change and motion, 
From the great morning of the world when first 
God dawned on Chaos ; in its stream im- I 

mersed, i 

The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light ; 
All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst, 
Diffuse themselves, and spend in love's m 

delight 
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might. 

xx 4 

The leprous corpse, touched by this spirit 

tender, J 

Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath ; 
Like incarnations of the stars, when splendor 



;3Donai0 283 

Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death 
And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath. 
Nought we know dies. Shall that alone which 

knows 
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath 
By sightless lightning ? the intense atom glows 
A moment, then is quenched in a most cold 

repose. 

XXI 

Alas ! that all we loved of him should be, 
But for our grief, as if it had not been, 
And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! 
Whence are we, and why are we ? of what 

scene 
The actors or spectators ? Great and mean 
Meet massed in death, who lends what life 

must borrow. 
As long as skies are blue and fields are green, 
Evening must usher night, night urge the 

morrow, 
Month follow month with woe, and year wake 

year to sorrow. 

XXII 

He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 
4 Wake thou,' cried Misery, ' childless Mother, 
rise 



284 Select jaoemsf of %>\)t\lty 

Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core, 
A wound more fierce than his with tears and 

sighs.' 
And all the Dreams that watched Urania's 

eyes, 
And all the Echoes whom their sister's song 
Had held in holy silence, cried, l Arise ! ' 
Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory 

stung, 
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendor 

sprung. 

XXIII 

She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs 
Out of the East, and follows wild and drear 
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, 
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, 
Had left the Earth a corpse ; — sorrow and 

fear 
So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania ; 
So saddened round her like an atmosphere 
Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her way 
Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. 

XXIV 

Out of her secret Paradise she sped, 
Through camps and cities rough with stone, 
and steel. 



ationate 285 

And human hearts which, to her airy tread 
Yielding not, wounded the invisible 
Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell ; 
And barbed tongues, and thoughts more 

sharp than they, 
Rent the soft Form they never could repel, 
Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of 

May, 
Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way. 

XXV 

In the death-chamber for a moment Death, 
Shamed by the presence of that living Might, 
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath 
Revisited those lips, and life's pale light 
Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear 

delight. 
4 Leave me not wild and drear and comfort- 
less, 
As silent lightning leaves the starless night ! 
Leave me not ! ' cried Urania ; her distress 
Roused Death ; Death rose and smiled, and met 
her vain caress. 

XXVI 

4 Stay yet awhile ! speak to me once again ; 
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live ; 
And in my heartless breast and burning brain 



286 Select poem* of ^ellep 

That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else 

survive, 
With food of saddest memory kept alive, 
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 
Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give 
All that I am to be as thou now art ! 
But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence 
depart ! 

XXVII 

1 gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, 
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of 

men 
Too soon, and with weak hands though 

mighty heart 
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den ? 
Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then 
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the 

spear ? 
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when 
Thy spirit should have filled its crescent 

sphere, 
The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee 

like deer. 

XXVIII 

'The herded wolves, bold only to pursue; 
The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead ; 
The vultures, to the conqueror's banner true, 



^Donate 287 

Who feed where Desolation first has fed, 
And whose wings rain contagion ; — how 

they fled, 
When, like Apollo, from his golden bow 
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 
And smiled ! — The spoilers tempt no second 

blow, 
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them 

lying low. 

XXIX 

c The sun comes forth, and many reptiles 

spawn ; 
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 
Is gathered into death without a dawn, 
And the immortal stars awake again ; 
So is it in the world of living men : 
A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight 
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and 

when 
It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared 

its light 
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful 

night/ 

XXX 

Thus ceased she ; and the mountain shepherds 

came, 
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent ; 



288 Select poems; of grtjellei? 

The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 
Over his living head like Heaven is bent, 
An early but enduring monument, 
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song 
In sorrow ; from her wilds Ierne sent 
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, 
And love taught grief to fall like music from his 
tongue. 

XXXI 

'Midst others of less note, came one frail 

Form, 
A phantom among men ; companionless 
As the last cloud of an expiring storm 
Whose thunder is its knell ; he, as I guess, 
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, 
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray 
With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, 
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, 
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and 

their prey. 

XXXII 

A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift — - 
A love in desolation masked ; — a Power 
Girt round with weakness ; — it can scarce 

uplift 
The weight of the superincumbent hour ; 
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 



a&onats 289 

A breaking billow ; — even whilst we speak 
Is it not broken ? On the withering flower 
The killing sun smiles brightly ; on a cheek 
Phe life can burn in blood, even while the heart 
may break. 

XXXIII 

His head was bound with pansies overblown, 
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue ; 

1 And a light spear topped with a cypress cone, 
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew 
Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew, 
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 
Shook the weak hand that grasped it ; of that 

crew 
He came the last, neglected and apart ; 

i herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter's 
dart. 

XXXIV 
All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 
Smiled through their tears ; well knew that 

gentle band 
Who in another's fate now wept his own, 
As in the accents of an unknown land 
He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scanned 
The stranger's mien, and murmured : * Who 

art thou ? ' 
He answered not, but with a sudden hand 



2 9 o Select J&oem* of Relies 

Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow, 
Which was like Cain's or Christ's — oh ! that 
it should be so ! 

XXXV 

What softer voice is hushed over the dead ? - 
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle- 
thrown ? 
What form leans sadly o'er the white deathbed,! 
In mockery of monumental stone, 
The heavy heart heaving without a moan ? 
If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, 
Taught, soothed, loved, honored the departed* 

one, 
Let me not vex with inharmonious sighs 
The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. 

XXXVI 

Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh, 
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown 
Life's early cup with such a draught of woe j 
The nameless worm would now itself disown j 
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 
Whose prelude held all envy, hate and wrong. 
But what was howling in one breast alone, 
Silent with expectation of the song, 
Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lynj* 
unstrung. 



XXXVII 

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame ! 
Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from me, 
Thou noteless blot on a remembered name ! 
But be thyself, and know thyself to be ! 
And ever at thy season be thou free 
To spill the venom when thy fangs o'er- 

flow; 
Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to 

thee ; 
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, 
nd like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt — 

as now. 

XXXVIII 

Nor let us weep that our delight is fled 

Far from these carrion kites that scream 

below ; 
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ; 
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. 
Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit shall 

flow 
Back to the burning fountain whence it came, 
A portion of the Eternal, which must glow 
Through time and change, unquenchably the 

same, 
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth 

of shame. 



292 g>eiect |Boem0 of Relies 

XXXIX 

Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth n< 

sleep — 
He hath awakened from the dream of life - 
*T is we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep 
With phantoms an unprofitable strife, 
And in mad trance strike with our spirit? 

knife 
Invulnerable nothings. We decay- 
Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief 
Convulse us and consume us day by day, 
And cold hopes swarm like worms within ot 

living clay. 

XL 

He has outsoared the shadow of our night; 
Envy and calumny and hate and pain, 
And that unrest which men miscall delight, 
Can touch him not and torture not again ; 
From the contagion of the world's slo 1 

stain 
He is secure, and now can never mourn 
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray i 

vain ; 
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased t 

burn, 
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 



a&onai* 293 

XLI 

He lives, he wakes — 't is Death is dead, not 
he; 

Mourn not for Adonais. — Thou young 
Dawn, 

Turn all thy dew to splendor, for from thee 

The spirit thou lamentest is not gone ; 

Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan ! 

Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and 
thou Air, 

Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst 
thrown 

O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it 
bare 

Even to the joyous stars which smile on its de- 
spair ! 

XLII 

He is made one with Nature : there is heard 
His voice in all her music, from the moan 
Of thunder to the song of night's sweet 

bird ; 
He is a presence to be felt and known 
In darkness and in light, from herb and 

stone, 
Spreading itself where'er that Power may 

move 
Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; 



294 Select |3oem$ of £>JieUe£ 

Which wields the world with never-wearied 
love, 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. 

XLIII 

He is a portion of the loveliness 

Which once he made more lovely ; he doth* 

bear 
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress 
Sweeps through the dull dense world, com- 
pelling there 
All new successions to the forms they wear, 
Torturing the unwilling dross that checks itsl 

flight 
To its own likeness, as each mass may bear, 
And bursting in its beauty and its might 
From trees and beasts and men into the Hea- 
ven's light. 

XLIV 

The splendors of the firmament of time 
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not ; 
Like stars to their appointed height they 

climb, 
And death is a low mist which cannot blot 
The brightness it may veil. When lofty 

thought 
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, 

<l 



^Donate 295 

And love and life contend in it for what 
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there 
nd move like winds of light on dark and 
stormy air. 

XLV 

The inheritors of unfulfilled renown 

Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal 

thought, 
Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton 
Rose pale, — his solemn agony had not 
Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he fought 
And as he fell and as he lived and loved 
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot, 
Arose ; and Lucan, by his death approved ; 
Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing re- 
proved. 

XLVI 

And many more, whose names on earth are 

dark 
But whose transmitted effluence cannot die 
So long as fire outlives the parent spark, 
Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 
1 Thou art become as one of us,' they cry ; 
4 It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long 
Swung blind in unascended majesty, 
Silent alone amid an Heaven of song. 
Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our 

throng ! ' 



296 Select poems of gtyellei? 

XLVII 

Who mourns for Adonais ? Oh, come forth, 
Fond wretch ! and know thyself and him 

aright. 
Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous 

Earth ; 
As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light < 

Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might 
Satiate the void circumference ; then shrink 
Even to a point within our day and night ; 
And keep thy heart light lest it make thee 

sink 
When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to 

the brink. 

XLVIII 

Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, 
Oh, not of him, but of our joy ; 't is nought i 
That ages, empires, and religions, there 
Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought ; 
For such as he can lend, — they borrow 

not 
Glory from those who made the world their: 

prey; 
And he is gathered to the kings of thought 
Who waged contention with their time's de- 
cay, 
And of the past are all that cannot pass away. 



atjonaifif 297 

XLIX 

Go thou to Rome, — at once the Paradise, 
The grave, the city, and the wilderness ; 
And where its wrecks like shattered mountains 

rise, 
And flowering weeds and fragrant copses 

dress 
The bones of Desolation's nakedness, 
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access, 
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead 
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is 

spread ; 



And gray walls moulder round, on which dull 

Time 
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, 
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 
This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
Like flame transformed to marble ; and be- 
neath, 
A field is spread, on which a newer band 
Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of 
death, 
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished 
breath. 



298 Select poems of gfytllty 

LI 

Here pause : these graves are all too young 

as yet 
To have outgrown the sorrow which con- 
signed 
Its charge to each : and if the seal is set, 
Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, || 
Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou find* 
Thine own well full, if thou returnest homey 
Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter 

wind 
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 
What Adonais is, why fear we to become ? 

LII 

The One remains, the many change and pass j 
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows 

fly; 
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die,: 
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dose 

seek ! 
Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's azure sky. 
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak 
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth tc 

speak. 



^Donate 299 

LIII 

Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my 
Heart ? 

Thy hopes are gone before j from all things 
here 

They have departed ; thou shouldst now de- 
part ! 

A light is passed from the revolving year, 

And man, and woman ; and what still is dear 

Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. 

The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whispers 
near ; 

'T is Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither, 
No more let Life divide what Death can join 
together. 

LIV 

That Light whose smile kindles the Universe, 
That Beauty in which all things work and 

move, 
That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse 
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love 
Which through the web of being blindly wove 
By man and beast and earth and air and sea, 
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
The fire for which all thirst, now beams on 

me, 
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. 



300 g>elrct pontt* of £rt)ellep 

LV 

The breath whose might I have invoked in 

song 
Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven 
Far from the shore, far from the trembling 

throng 
Whose sails were never to the tempest given ; 
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven ! 
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; 
Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of 

Heaven, 
The soul of Adonais, like a star, 
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. 






&otz$ 



While Shelley's poetry as a whole is difficult and contains much 
bscurity both of thought and expression, yet much of it is very 
lain and simple ; to this portion the present selection is mainly con- 
ned. There is, therefore, no occasion for elaborate commentary 
[id annotation. The classical and historical allusions in the text 
in be understood by means of common works of reference. The 
)ecial student who desires greater information will find the com- 
lete history of each poem in the editor's Centenary Edition of 
helley s Complete Poetical Works, 4 vols. (Boston, 1892), and 
le same matter much abridged in the editor's Cambridge Edition , 
1 vol. (Boston, 1900) ; and in the latter he will also find a very 
tomplete series of Notes on the sources and meaning of the poems, 
nportant variant readings, and like matters. Additional comment 
'n the poems as a whole and in detail may also be found in the 
ditor's essays, Makers of Literature, The Torch, The Appreciation 
f Literature. The following notes are intended for the reader 
rimarily rather than for the student. 

Cor Cordium 

In this division, which takes its title from Shelley's epitaph, there 
ave been collected his best single lyrics. It is that part of his verse 
rhich most discloses his personality with intimacy and expresses it 
1 every phase, in intellect, imagination, and passion. 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty. This poem is the initial 
ymn of that ideal quest which is the main subject of Shelley's 
erse, and is an early expression of his idea of his own life. The 
amantic picture of his boyhood is composed of real memories, such 
3 are also found in his dedication to The Revolt of Islam. The 
onception of the " unseen power" as manifesting itself in transi- 
Dry beauty on earth and in man is one of the fundamental divine 
onceptions present, from first to last, expressly or implicitly, in his 
oetry ; similarly the last two lines contain his fundamental moral 
ule of life. 



302 jl*ote$ 

The Two Spirits. An admirably characteristic poem, by 
its antiphonal form, its clustering of Shelley's fixed imagery and 
habitual phrases, and the presence of one of his fixed imaginative 
ideas, — the distant flight to a supra-mundane realm of light and 
peace. 

To Constantia Singing. The earliest of the many music 
poems of Shelley. It describes characteristically his state under the 
power of music, while it renders both the singer and the song with 
exquisite passion. The imagery of the last stanza, though some- 
what obscure through its daring, comparing the song to the moving 
air, now tempestuous and now soft, and himself to a cloud borne 
on it, is in his most original manner of creation, blending nature, 
himself, and music in one phase of conscious being, — the ecstasy 
that he so many times and in so many forms tried to describe. 
Constantia was Jane Clairmont, a family connection by marriage, 
who lived with Shelley and Mary much of the time. 

The Sensitive Plant. This is the most pleasing and grace- 
ful of Shelley's many idealizations of his own spirit, the plant being 
himself. Its music is sufficient of itself to place the poem apart, 
but it is also by its imagination unique in literature. 

Ode to the West Wind. "This poem," says Shelley, 
" was conceived and chiefly written in a wood that skirts the Arno, 
near Florence, and on a day when that tempestuous wind, whose 
temperature is at once mild and animating, was collecting the va- 
pours which pour down the autumn rains. They began, as I foresaw, 
at sunset with a violent tempest of hail and rain, attended by thati 
magnificent thunder and lightning peculiar to the Cisalpian regions." 
The poem is the finest union of all the elements of Shelley's inspi- 
ration in one song, — nature, liberty, and personal pathos, held 
through sorrow on a triumphal note of hope for the world. 

Stanzas Written in Dejection near Naples. Thei 

poem admirably illustrates Shelley's lyric method of passing from 
nature into a mood of his own spirit, in which nature is forgotten 
until as the poem declines the soul returns again to the natural scene. 
The clear-cut unity of the stanzas singly is not less remarkable than 
the unity of the poem as a whole. 

To a Skylark. This is one of the high-water marks of 
English lyrical verse. The lark's singing is given as a thing of nature 
with great truth, but it is transformed by the increasing fusion of 



jpote* 303 

uman interest and meaning till it ends as a pure symbol of the poet's 
ng in the world, from which it is not divided in thought ; the 
turn of the poet to the natural object, in the last half-line, is a 
:rfect stroke of art, and gives unity and completion to the poem. 

The Cloud. The best of Shelley's interpretations of nature in 

e pure mythic way. There is in the poem nothing either of pan- 
ieism or humanity, the divine or the human spirit ; there is only 
iture in her beautiful phenomenal life as if man did not exist. ^ 

Arethusa. This and the two following poems illustrate 
helley's mastery, by sympathy, of the mythic mood and the " fair 
irms" of Greek imagination, to which his genius in creation was 

akin, as on the intellectual side he was kin to Greek intellect. 

The World's Wanderers. This and the following poem, 
•ansferring human life to the objects of nature, are rather in a 
lodern than an antique mood, and are far from early nature moods ; 
ut they complete the series from The Cloud which may be described 
.5 Aryan, and the Hymns, which are classical, to the prevalence of 
[jntiment as in the last ages of Greece. 

Ozymandias. A majestic rendering of the old motive of the 
pposition of man's life to nature. It is one of few instances of the 
jblime in English poetry since Milton. 

Ode to Heaven. Three moods of thought are depicted in the 
btree divisions : that of the eternal stellar universe over which man 
asses as a shadow unremaining ; that of the world of nature through 
fhich man passes to the more glorious divine ; that of the universe 
microscopically infinite in which man " atom-born " is only a drop 
1 nature's veins. 

An Exhortation. One of the most charming of Shelley's 
angs, and an expression of his naiveness. 

Song. This invocation and the next serve as an introduction 
the group of love-poems which follow, so simple that they re- 
uire no comment, and by their directness, intensity of passion, 
nd pathos of regret, composing a cluster of which the like is not to 
e found elsewhere. It is by this group, and the nature group with 
/ilich this collection opens, that his fame is most widely spread. 

The Aziola. An admirable example of Shelley's power of 
imiliar verse, entirely poetic and yet held in a wholly natural key. 

Good-night. There is a different version of this poem. 

To-morrow. This and the next poem are characteristic 



304 jpote* 

snatches of song, numerous in Shelley's work, some of which are 
among his best-remembered poems. They introduce the series of 
love-poems in which regret for the flight of time and the passing of 
love is the motive of the mood. 

To Edward Williams. This poem introduces the last group 
of love-poems which were composed at Pisa and Lerici just before 
Shelley's death, and were addressed to Mrs. Williams. The two 
families lived in close friendship, and Williams, who was a young 
lieutenant lately returned from India, was Shelley's companion both 
in poetry and boating, and was lost with him at his death. All of 
these poems are singular for their blending of familiarity in diction 
and style with profound feeling and poetic intensity. The present 
poem is, as it purports to be, & letter. 

To Jane. Perhaps the favorite of Shelley's quiet descriptions i 
of nature. It reflects the happiness of his Pisan days, when he e 
often went to compose in the forest near-by. 

With a Guitar : To Jane. The guitar was a gift of Shelley y 
to Mrs. Williams, who used to play for him. It was carefully pre- ( 
served as a relic and is now in the Bodleian Library. " There is i 
probably no other relic of a great poet," writes Dr. Garrett, "soot 
intimately associated with the arts of poetry and music." 

The Magnetic Lady to Her Patient. Shelley's cousin, 

Medwin, had introduced the magnetic treatment for him during 
some of the spasmodic pains to which he was subject, and he haddj 
seemed to find relief from it. 

To Jane. This poem is a memorial of the use of the guitar, 
and like all these intimate expressions of his life rebuilds the last days. 

Lines Written in the Bay of Lerici. Perhaps the last \ 
personal poem of Shelley, on the full moon before his death. 

A Dirge. This and the following Laments are among the best-:| 
known work of Shelley, and, brief as they are, express the sad sidei(| 
of his mind more poignantly for that reason ; they are, on theirii 
small scale, not less intense, profound, and imaginative than the, 
poems of love's passion and despair. 

Lyric Drama 

Shelley's lyrical dramas stand apart by themselves in English litera- 
ture. The Prometheus Unbound is his greatest work by its contents 



t well as by its form. It is not possible to give any impression of it 
f selection. What has been attempted here is to extract a few 
issages which shall illustrate the lyrical movement, the landscape 
:auty, the social ideals, and the imaginative power of the verse, 
'o the selections from Prometheus some scenes from Shelley's 
nfinished works are added in further illustration of his treatment 
: drama of a lyrical type. 

From Prince Athanase. These lines, though not from a 
:ama but from the fragmentary narrative poem of this name, are 
iserted here as a kind of prologue to the division, because they are 
i mood and imagery sympathetic with the poetry here grouped. 

Spirit-Song. The best description of the action of poetic 
:nius in creation. 

The Form of Love. The first stanza depicts love j the 
cond, ruin, which is love's shadow. The "King of Sadness" 

Prometheus. 

The Journey of Asia. Asia, whom Prometheus loves, is 
le spirit of nature personified as beauty. While Prometheus is 
lained to the rock, she abides in India waiting his deliverance, 
'he moment being now come, Panthea, attendant on Prometheus, 
rives to accompany Asia who goes to rejoin Prometheus. The 
>em describes her journey from the Indian vale to the pinnacle of 
»ck where is the descent to the subterranean cave of Demogorgon, 
le spirit of universal being and fount of all things 5 there Asia be- 
olds the chariots of the Hours as they rise, and on one of these 
le is borne upward to the top of another mountain. The climax 
r the worship of beauty is in the lyric " Life of Life," addressed 
1 the spirit of nature, or Asia. 

The Prophecy of Prometheus. Prometheus having been 
>erated addresses Asia who has joined him in her chariot. He de- 
ribes the cave where they will live during the earthly millennium, 
it before beginning the journey sends the Spirit of the Hour to 
ow the conch-shell announcing the millennium to the world. 

The Music of the Shell. In this passage Shelley's con- 
ption of human happiness in its perfect state is described. 

The Pageant of the Earth and Moon. The union of 
rometheus and Asia, typifying the millennium, is reflected in the 
arriage of the Earth and the Moon, whose epitbalamium makes 
ie movement of the final Act of the drama. The selection given 



306 j£ote$ 

describes the pageant of the two visions, of which the second is 
most original in conception, as well as remarkable for the quality of 
the blank verse ; the whole is one of the most highly wrought pas- 
sages of Shelley's poetry. 

The Triumphal Song of the Earth. The hymn de- 
scribes the purifying and vivifying power of love, and predicts man's 
rule over material nature. 

The Hymn of Demogorgon. The final passage of the 
drama, in which Demogorgon, the voice of eternity, in the presence 
of the listening universe announces the advent of Love and praises 
the Promethean ideal of life by which that Advent is prepared. 

Scene from the Indian Play. In this and the following 

scene from Orpheus, the last poetic manner of Shelley is well shown 
though the work is fragmentary and inchoate. It is quite obvious 
that the dramatic style is wholly different from anything else in 
English, 

Bridal Song. Written for a play of Williams. Other ver- 
sions, expanded and chorally arranged, are to be found in Shelley's 
Works. 

Archy's Song. From the drama Charles I. 

A Few Songs of Liberty 

In this division is gathered only a slight portion of the poetry de- 
voted by Shelley to his political and social aspirations. The Re-volt 
of Islam and Hellas are entirely devoted to the theme, and there 
are other poems longer and shorter dealing with it, so that the division 
does not show the proportionate value of the theme in his work j 
but what is given illustrates the most poetical part of this work, its 
best lyric moments, and in connection with the passages already! 
given from Prometheus Unbound sufficiently sets forth his range of 
political thought and sympathy. 

Song to the Men of England. These stanzas had their 
source in Shelley's excitement over the Manchester massacre. The 
same theme and mood are elaborated in his Mask of Anarchy. 

Ode to Liberty. This poem is the most stately and sustained 
of Shelley's several odes on the general theme, and stands apart 
from the rest in not being written for a special occasion ; it is conse- 
quently more ideal, with less temporal excitement in the expression, 



Lines Written on Hearing the News of the Death 
of Napoleon. This vigorous and sonorous poem is exceptional 
in style, and is a curious re-moulding of the primitive savage idea 
that the force of the conquered enters into the conqueror. 

Choruses from Hellas. These five choruses, under the 
double inspiration of Shelley's love of Greece and devotion to the 
revolutionary cause, reach the highest expression in pure song that 
he attained as the poet of liberty and of the hope of the world in 
history, unless the Ode to the West Wind and To a Skylark be in- 
cluded in this class of verse. 

America. From The Re-volt of Islam. 

Scenes from Nature and Life 

In this division are collected a few of the descriptive and narra- 
tive passages of Shelley's verse, which suggest rather than illustrate 
the quality of his more familiar way of writing. In this mode of 
composition he was uncommonly successful, having great ease with- 
out loss of refinement, and remaining poetical even in the midst of 
the common details of life. The Letter to Maria Gisborne is an 
example on the lower line, and Julian and Maddalo in the higher 
strain, of such familiar verse. 

Mont Blanc. "The poem," says Shelley, " was composed 
under the immediate impression of the deep and powerful feelings 
excited by the objects which it attempts to describe ; and, as an 
undisciplined overflowing of the soul, rests its claim to approbation 
on an attempt to imitate the untamable wildness and inaccessible so- 
lemnity from which those feelings sprang." The power ascribed 
to nature at the close of the third division, ' ' to repeal large codes 
of fraud and woe," is characteristic of the age rather than personal 
to Shelley 5 just above, the awkward phrase " But for " is equiva- 
lent to " Only in." 

Venice. The poem describes Shelley's evening excursion to 
the Lido with Byron, and gives landscape effects as marvellous as 
Turner's in painting. 

Lines Written among the Euganean Hills. This 

description of landscape through the changes of the day belongs to 
the type of poetry made famous by Milton's V Allegro and its 
companion piece, but it is so originally treated by Shelley as hardly 



308 j]*ote$ 



to recall the Miltonic strains. Only those who are familiar with 
Italian landscape can truly appreciate the extraordinary truthfulness of 
the description. The poem was composed at Este, where Shelley 
spent a part of the autumn soon after his arrival in Italy, in a villa 
near the house and grave of Petrarch, and it commemorates a day 
spent on the neighboring hills. 

Marenghi. The poem so entitled is a mere fragment, from 
which these three stanzas are taken. They are remarkable for the 
extraordinary union of the music and movement of the line with 
the character of the scene and the perfection of the landscape effect 
so built up of both elements. 

Ginevra. The lines given are the opening passage of the un- 
finished narrative poem of that name, and are similarly remarkable 
for the music and movement of the line harmoniously with the scene. 

When Soft Winds. This and the following are examples of 
the many cameo passages found in the mass of Shelley's fragments. 

Evening : Ponte al Mare, Pisa. This poem is most 
characteristic of Shelley's descriptive manner, both by the minute 
and unadorned detail of the first two stanzas, the mirror image of 
the third, and the sense of distance (the eye being kept focussed on 
some one object, as is his way in such scenes) of the last stanza. 

The Question. Similarly noticeable for its detail. 

The Boat on the Serchio. Perhaps no poem renders so 
well Shelley's own life, in the last year of his Italian residence, or 
gives such an impression of the real character of his pleasures. His 
companion was Williams. 

Poems of Ideal Pursuit 

The three poems here included are the principal minor works of 
Shelley, and the first and the last are, perhaps, the most commonly 
read of his longer poems. They exhibit under quite different aspects 
his pursuit of the ideal. 

From Prince Athanase. These lines make a fit prologue 
to the division, of which Love under one and another conception is 
the theme. 

Alastor. Shelley's poetic genius took two main directions. 
The earlier was toward the service of mankind in the reconstruction 
of political and social life on abstract moral principles looking to an 



jpote* 3°9 

anarchic state, free from government and controlled by love in the 
heart of each individual shaping his acts and determining his rela- 
tions with all others. The second was toward the service of ideal 
beauty in poetic art in setting forth love primarily, and beauty and 
truth secondarily, in ideal forms. His heart was so engaged in the 
practical hopes of reconstruction that the former course took on the 
aspect of duty ; and, at first, he regarded the second course, which 
was finally to be dominant in his life, as a temptation and weakness 
because it seemed to separate him from mankind. It was in this 
mood that he conceived Alastor ; while he could not refrain from 
self-expression in this poem by writing it, he nevertheless represented 
the ideal pursuit involved in it as an error bringing a fatal destruc- 
tion on its hero. The word Alastor means a destroying spirit, and 
is not the name of the hero, but of the driving force of the ideal 
which compelled him to wander. He figures in the hero, however, 
his own history of increasing isolation ; and the death-atmosphere 
of the poem is due to his anticipation of early death at the time he 
was writing it. His own words in the preface best describe his idea 
of the poem. " It represents a youth of uncorrupted feelings and 
adventurous genius led forth by an imagination inflamed and purified 
through familiarity with all that is excellent and majestic to the 
contemplation of the universe. He drinks deep of the fountains of 
knowledge and is still insatiate. The magnificence and beauty or the 
external world sinks profoundly into the frame of his conceptions 
and affords to their modifications a variety not to be exhausted. So 
long as it is possible for his desires to point towards objects thus in- 
finite and unmeasured, he is joyous and tranquil and self-possessed 
But the period arrives when these objects cease to suffice. His mind 
is at length suddenly awakened and thirsts for intercourse with an 
intelligence similar to itself. He images to himself the Being whom 
he loves. Conversant with speculations of the sublimest and most 
perfect natures, the vision in which he embodies his own imagina- 
tions unites all of wonderful or wise or beautiful, which the poet, 
the philosopher or the lover could depicture. The intellectual facul- 
ties, the imagination, the functions of sense have their respective 
requisitions on the sympathy of corresponding powers in other 
human beings. The Poet is represented as uniting these requisitions 
and attaching them to a single image. He seeks in vain for a proto- 
type of his conception. Blasted by his disappointment, he descends 
to an untimely grave." 



310 jpotes 

Epipsychidion. This poem is the most difficult of Shelley's 
works, and contains Platonic and Dantesque elements for the proper 
explanation of which a long comment would be required. Such a 
comment may be found in Brooke's edition, Shelley Society's Pub- 
lications, Series ii, no. 7, and also a briefer account in his Poems 
of Shelley, Golden Treasury Series. It seems, nevertheless, unwise 
to attempt so exact an interpretation except for the special student. 
The ordinary reader may better treat the poem under its necessary 
limitations of intelligibility, and appropriate its poetry as best he can 
without too curious a mind for its details of mystic philosophy or 
doubtful autobiography. The poem was definitely occasioned by 
Shelley's sudden interest in an Italian lady, Emilia Viviani, placed 
by her family in the convent of St. Anna. The lady soon ceased 
to interest him except as an object of compassion. Meanwhile she 
had precipitated in his mind certain ideas which had long been held 
in it unexpressed, and which dated from the time of Prince Athanase, 
a poem in which he intended under an allegorical fable of his own 
life to represent the conflict of different principles of love over a 
youth who should finally adore its higher forms. Without entering 
into the detail of the Platonic metaphysics involved, it is sufficient 
to realize that Shelley depicts in the poem the pursuit of the ideal, 
figured as a lady. The poem is made of four divisions or movements : 
first, the idealization of Emilia ; second, the didactic episode setting 
forth the theory of freedom in love ; third, the veiled narrative of 
his life ; fourth, the flight to the 
last rendering of the bower of bliss. 

Adonais. This elegy on Keats is grounded on the Greek 
tradition of Bion and Moschus, but is nevertheless wholly original 
by its transformation of the old motive, which it builds up into a 
modern song. It is easily understood when its poetic imagery is 
mastered. The essential comment is contained in the note in the 
Cambridge Shelley, which is as follows : — 

"From Bion the picture of Aphrodite's mourning, accompanied 
by the weeping Loves, is transformed into Urania's mourning, ac- 
companied by the Dreams ; from Moschus the picture of the lament- 
ing Satyrs, Priapi, Fauns, Fairies, Echo, nightingales, sea-birds, and 
others, is transformed into the sorrow of the Desires, Adorations, 
Persuasions, the elements, Echo, the season, the flowers, the night- 
ingale and the eagle. From Moschus, also, the contrast of the life 



|iote$ 3 11 

>f the year with that of man, and the ascribing of the death to poison, 
ind from Bion, the suffering of Urania on her journey, the kiss and the 
iscribing of the death to the « dragon in his den ' are derived, though 
:hese elements are originally treated, expanded, and varied. In 
stanza xxviii, with the introduction of the circumstances and per- 
sons of the time, the contemporary element begins ; the mourning 
af the idealized figures of the poets continues it ; the curse upon the 
destroyer follows ; and the final movement of the poem, its paean 
of immortality, commencing at Stanza xxxix, is in the purely mod- 
ern spirit, an overflow of Shelley's eloquence in his most charac- 
teristic phrases and ideas, — the best sustained, the most condensed, 
the most charged with purely spiritual passion in personal form, of 
any of his poems of hunger for eternity. The development of the 
poem, beginning with the poignancy of human grief rendered through 
images of beauty and the saddening of the things of earthly life 
however lovely, and then changing by subtle interpretations of the 
spirit evoking its own eternal nature in brooding over the dead form 
of what it loved, and ending at last in the triumphant reversion of 
its initial grief into joy in the presence of the eternal life foretasted 
in fixed faith and enduring love even here, — this is the classic form 
of Christian elegy. Adonah, as a work of art, effects this evolu- 
tion of life out of death, with more unconsciousness, greater unity 
and steadfast tendency, with passion more spontaneous and irresistible, 
with melody more plaintive, eloquence more sweet and springing, 
imagination more comprehensive and sublime, than any other English 
elegy. It is artificial only to those whose minds are not yet familiar- 
ized with the language of imagery, — those to whom the gods of 
Greece speak an unknown tongue 5 it is cold only to those who con- 
found personal grief with that universal sorrow for youthful death 
which has been the burden of elegy from the first ; it is dark with 
metaphysics only to.those who have not yet caught a single ray from 
the spirit of Plato. . . . With Stanza xxxviii the poem begins the 
P ;ean of immortality which closes it, in harmony with the tradition 
of Milton and Spenser. Shelley resumes again the mood which had 
received such repeated and various illustration in his verse, and finally 
in EpipsycAidion, and presents the opposition of Life to Death as the 
shadow to the substance, the night to the day, and declares the ab- 
sorption of the soul of Keats into the Spiritual Power whose mani- 
festations in our knowledge are Life, Beauty, and Love. Of the 



312 jpotes 

state of the dead, as individuals, he refrains from speaking, as he 
had refrained from the time of The Sunset, leaving it in uncertainty ; 
of the permanence of the spirit in the eternal world he once more 
and for the last time speaks with passionate conviction, both as the 
infinite of being in original creative activity and as the hope, faith, 
and home of the human soul." 



%\%m to tftttft Lines 



A glorious people vibrated again (Ode to Liberty), 147. 

A sensitive plant in a garden grew (The Sensitive Plant), 9. 

Alas ! In times long past, when fair Eurydice (Scene from Or- 
pheus), 141. 

Amid the mountains, like a hunted beast (Marenghi), 201. 

And, if my grief should still be dearer to me (From the Indian 
Play), 1 30. 

And like a dying lady, lean and pale (The Waning Moon), 204. 

Arethusa arose (Arethusa), 39. 

Ariel to Miranda : — Take (With a Guitar : To Jane), 78. 

Art thou pale for weariness ( To the Moon), 47. 

As over wide dominions (Prometheus Unbound, ii), 91. 

Asia, thou light of life (Prometheus Unbound, iv), 109. 

Best and brightest, come away ! ( To Jane), 72. 
But see where, through two openings in the forest (Promethtus 
Unbound, iv), 118. 

Chameleons feed on light and air (An Exhortation), 51. 

Darkness has dawned in the East (Choruses from Hellas, iv), 169. 
Do you not hear the Aziola cry ? (The Aziola), 61. 

Earth, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood ! (Alastor), 215. 
Echoes we : listen (Prometheus Unbound, ii), 97. 

Far, far away, O ye (Lines), 68. 

From all the blasts of heaven thou hast descended (Prometheus 

Unbound, iii), 92. 
From the forests and highlands (Hymn of Pan), 45. 

Good-night ? ah, no ! the hour is ill (Good-Night), 62. 



3H lf\ntw to iFtot Jline* 

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit ! (To a Skylark), 30. 
Heigho ! the lark and the owl ! (Archf s Song), 145. 

I arise from dreams of thee (The Indian Serenade), 57. 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers (The Cloud), 36. 

I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way (The Question), 205. 

I met a traveller from an antique land (Ozmandias), 48. 

I rode one evening with Count Maddalo ( Venice : From Julian 

and Maddalo), 181. 
I weep for Adonais — he is dead ! (Adonais), 273. 
If I walk in Autumn's even (Lines), 63. 

It interpenetrates my granite mass (Prometheus Unbound, iv), 1 23. 
I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden (To ), 59. 

Let there be light! said Liberty (Choruses from Hellas, ii), 167. 
Life may change, but it may fly not (Choruses from Hellas, i), 163. 1 
Life of Life, thy lips enkindle (Prometheus Unbound, ii), 106. 
Like the ghost of a dear friend dead (Time Long Past), 67. 

Many a green isle needs must be (Lines Written among the Euga- 

nean Hills), 187. 
Men of England, wherefore plough (Song), 146. 

Music when soft voices die (To ), 88. 

My coursers are fed with the lightning (Prometheus Unbound, ii), 

105. 
My faint spirit was sitting in the light (From the Arabic), 60. 
My soul is an enchanted boat (Prometheus Unbound, ii), 107. 

Now the last day of many days (The Recollection), 74. 

O Thou, who plumed with strong desire ( The Tivo Spirits), 5. 
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being (Ode to tht 

West Wind), 24. 
O world ! O life ! O time ! (A Lament), 87. 
Oh, follow, follow (Prometheus Unbound, ii), 97. 
On a poet's lips I slept (Prometheus Unbound, i), 90. 

One word is too often profaned (To ), 58. 

Our boat is asleep on Serchio's stream (The Boat on the Serchio), 

208. 



iflnDep to jfirtft ILine* 3 X 5 

Palace-roof of cloudless nights! (Ode to Heaven), 48. 

Rarely, rarely, comest thou (Song), 52. 
Rough wind, that moanest loud (A Dirge) , 87. 

She left me at the silent time (Lines Written in the Bay of Lerici), 
85. 

Sleep, sleep on ! forget thy pain (The Magnetic Lady to her Pa- 
tient), 81. 

Soon as the sound had ceased whose thunder filled (Prometheus 
Unbound, iv), 113. 

Sweet Spirit ! sister of that orphan one (Epipsychidion), 246. 

Swifter far than summer's flight (Remembrance) , 65. 

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave (To Night), 54. 

Tell me, thou Star, whose wings of light (The World's Wander- 
ers), 47. 

The awful shadow of some unseen Power (Hymn to Intellectual 
Beauty), 1. 

The everlasting universe of things (Mont Blanc), 1 74. 

The fitful alternations of the rain (Rain), 203. 

The flower that smiles to-day (Mutability), 64. 

The fountains mingle with the river (Love's Philosophy), 56. 

The golden gates of sleep unbar (Bridal Song), 144. 

The keen stars were twinkling (To Jane), 83. 

The serpent is shut out from paradise ( To Edivard Williams), 69. 

The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie (Hymn of Apollo), 43. 

The sun is set ; the swallows are asleep (Evening), 204. 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear (Stanzas), 28. 

The world's great age begins anew (Choruses from Hellas, v), 170. 

There is a people mighty in its youth (America), 172. 

Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all (From Prince Atha- 
nase), 214. 

Thou, Earth, calm empire of a happy soul (Prometheus Unbound, 
iv), 127. 

Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die ( To Constantia), 7. 

To the deep, to the deep (Prometheus Unbound, ii), 102. 

'T was at the season when the Earth upsprings (From Prince Atha- 
nase), 89. 



316 31ntw to jFittft Hint* 

Unfathomable Sea ! whose waves are years (Time), 88. 

What ! alive and so bold, O Earth (Lines), 162. 

When passion's trance is overpast (To ), 59. 

When soft winds and sunny skies (^When Soft Winds' 1 ), 203. 
When the lamp is shattered (Lines), 66. 
Where art thou, beloved To-morrow (To-morroiv), 63. 
Wild, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one (Ginevra), 202. 
Worlds on worlds are rolling ever (Choruses from Hellas, iii), 167 



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